Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Ma y Pa en La Republica Dominicana!


Mom and Dad stylin in the capital!

It was surreal to be standing amongst Dominicans watching the arrival gate in anticipation for two familiar faces. A little over a year ago I was walking out those same doors scared out of my mind for what lay ahead of me. My fears back then were rather different. Was I supposed to be speaking Spanish with everyone, did my fellow volunteers like me, were we going to have to do more skits at the airport like we did in Washington DC, did I pack enough tank tops, were my feet always going to be this swollen for the next two years? Waiting for my parents to come out of the gate I reflected on how much my fears and anxieties have changed with the past year, they have not diminished, I’m still working on that, but they have certainly shifted. Now I was thinking, am I still motivated enough, do I spend too much time alone in my house watching Glee and Modern Family, do I eat enough Dominican food, are my projects going to be sustainable, what grad school should I apply to, am I enjoying every moment as much as I should be…I no longer worry about my Spanish or my clothes or my friendships with volunteers, I worry about the bigger picture and whether or not I will be proud of my service or if I’ve given up a lot of my drive and chosen to spend countless hours in my house sweating, reading for pleasure, and cooking.

But as my parents adorably came through the doors with their functional and compact CamelBak backpacks I snapped out of my spacey day dream and couldn’t help but smile noticing that they were flanked by high maintenance Dominicans, dressed to the nines with three inch stilettos and outfits that are normally reserved for prostitutes. Welcome to paradise Mom and Dad. We hopped in our zippy Chevy Aveo and took on Santo Domingo. Owing to my Dad’s prowess as a NYC cab driver, he already had the requisite skills to survive the lawless streets of the DR, I just had to teach him a few things about the frequent use of the horn. Whether you are saying whats-up to a friend, warning a motorcycle you are running him into a ditch, or letting someone know you are passing, you honk; the horn is utilized in any and all driving situations, it is used liberally and without hesitation. I would say the most difficult thing about driving in the DR is the motorcycles. They have no concern for bodily injury and pull in front of you without looking. The idea is that it is the cars and trucks obligation to avoid crushing the motorcycle and this could be why I know a fair number of people without the use of both legs. But we survived without killing anyone and without being killed! Go gringos!

We spent the first night in Santo Domingo at a lovely artsy bed and breakfast owned by a couple from Switzerland. I could not believe I was in Santo Domingo as we sipped Presidente cerveza bien-fria (super cold) on the rooftop. For me, Santo Domingo is loud, abrasive, fun, and generally uncomfortable. All that changes when you are not sleeping in a five dollar a night pension. The next morning we set off on our grand adventure to visit Judea, the wonderful border town that I call home. We arrived around 3 pm and set out to visit a few neighbors and friends of mine. Everyone was extremely excited to meet my parents and sit with us. Most of the time at each house was spent discussing how we should stay longer because no matter how long you stay, it is never enough. My friends in town have already started worrying about the fact that I will be leaving in a year and I how I should marry a local so I don’t ever have to leave. ..umm, something tells me I’ll be ready to go home in a year or so, not that I don’t love the people and the culture, but I would probably go crazy living in the campo for eternity. I was hesitant about whether or not I should give my parents the real campo experience and have them stay at my house, as there are plenty of hotels in the nearby town. However, they said they were game and I thought it would be fun. So we made scrambled eggs, drank wine we had bought in the city, and sat around by candle light. They also had the added treat to see what my community looks like when it rains…it becomes pretty much impassable on foot as the streets turn into one giant mud puddle. Luckily we did not stick around and wait for the mosquitoes to breed. We took the opportunity the next morning to visit my original community located about an hour to the south. Although it is very close geographically, my original community of Tres Palmas could not look more different. Located in the foothills of the mountains, it is green, lush and quiet. It is rural, remote, and overflowing with citrus, mango and avocado trees. Sounds a bit like paradise right? We went back and paid fairly quick visits to all of my old favorite families. Of course, it being mango season, each family made sure we left their house with about 20 mangos. By the time we got to my friend Lucia’s house, we had accrued close to 100 mangos, a pineapple, three cucumbers, and a bunch of bananas. People’s generosity in that part of the country will stay with me for my lifetime. Even though I only spent five months in Tres Palmas, I will always think of that community as my home. Although there was not much room for projects because most families were elderly grandparents raising their grandchildren, I always felt very welcome and well-loved in that community. Going back there makes me feel as though it was my home, something I still do not feel in Judea, probably owing to the fact that it is a very different community, more urban, much larger, and faster paced. People in Judea are not as willing to love me simply because I exist, they are a little more skeptical of my motives and also seem a little more concerned with what they are going to get from me. As cynical as that might sound, I have found that people are less likely to work with me just because, they would like to see how they will benefit first. I am sure this attitude existed in Tres Palmas as well, but it was harder to feel because people had a lot less going on in their lives and with only 40 families, people were much more closely tied, not to mention we never had a project going on in Tres Palmas.

We had a special lunch that my best friend Lucia and her mother prepared. Despite being one of the only families with a dirt floor in the community, Lucia has always gone to great efforts to invite me to her home and make me feel comfortable. Her family has never seemed ashamed of their obvious poverty, maybe because there is nothing to hide. With seven children, no father, and Maria without work, the family survives by growing all of their food and accepting food stamps from the government once a month. And yet, of all the families I knew in Tres Palmas, Lucia, her brothers, and her mother always seemed the most carefree and content. Lucia, one of the brightest people I have met in the country, has been unable to finish high school for the past 3 years because of a mistake in her papers. She was born in Haiti and some of her documents have misspelled her name and therefore, in the middle of her junior year of high school, she was forced to drop out until the government can fix the error. To me, it is such a shame that someone so bright, with such drive and lofty aspirations, should be kept at home cooking for her younger brothers simply because she was born across the border and a spelling error was made. Regardless, it was lovely to see my friend and have my parents see where I spent my happiest moments in Tres Palmas. Melting into a plastic chair in Lucia’s back patio while the family made me exceedingly sweet fresh juices and we chatted about anything and everything under the sun, that is what I miss most about Tres Palmas. I feel blessed to have met Lucia. It is extremely hard to find a young woman on this island who I can relate to. Most girls my age have at least two kids and spend most of their time inquiring as to why I am not married or why I don’t have children. Looking pretty and having kids are pretty much on the minds of these women all the time, and I struggle to relate.

We made a quick stop in Dajabon, the border town with Haiti, to look at Immigration and the border crossing. My Mom insisted that she did not want to spend another night in my campo, she claims it was because I had slept on the floor but something tells me it also had something to do with my less-than-pristine latrine out past the scary mangy dog. I did not protest, a cockroach had crawled on my face the night I slept on the floor and I vowed that from now on I will either sleep in my hammock or under my mosquito net but never again on the floor. So we drove to MonteCristi, the unique dusty town that feels a bit like a scene out of the Wild West, if you let the Wild West have hundreds of noisy motorcycles and scooters. We had dinner at my newly discovered favorite pizza garden. A local dentist proceeded to buy us several beers and we closed down the restaurant having drank our water weight in courtesy beers (I think the locals were blown away by the fact that gringos had found this hidden gem and wanted to welcome us).

The next morning we enjoyed the beautiful beach of El Morro and par usual, we were its only visitors. The waves were mellow and revealed about a mile of pristine sand. We walked to the top of El Morro and enjoyed beautiful vistas of the sea. That afternoon we set off for Punta Rucia, a sleepy beach town I had been told to visit but had never been to. The only thing I knew was that it was difficult to get to and there was one small hostel that everyone told me I had to stay at. We called the hostel and found out it was booked for the night; I was hesitant to head all the way out to a place I had never been to, especially if there weren’t any other places to stay. But it isn’t an adventure if you don’t think there could be some problems along the way.

The trusty Aveo delivered us to the sleepy little Dominican town where the cows grazing in the dry-thorn forest looked like they hadn’t had a good meal in months. We found a gorgeous hotel to stay in with beach views and spent the afternoon on a drizzly beach. Dinner was a great example of how things work sometimes in this country. We were told to go to this one restaurant. After some pre-dinner cocktails, we set off with quite an appetite. When we arrived around 7 pm the man at the place told us to come back in an hour. When we returned at eight, he looked a little nervous and said the woman was in a meeting and should be back shortly. When she finally arrived she seemed very embarrassed to have kept us waiting. It turns out she was the host mother for the last Peace Corps volunteer that lived in that town a few years ago. She made us fried fish and fried plantains and we went to bed full and content. The next morning we decided to take a local fisherman who had become our confidant and tour guide of the town, up on his offer to visit an island off the coast for snorkeling and a morning excursion. So we boarded the boat and were whisked away to a miniscule island several miles offshore. Once out there we were given several pieces of bread and went snorkeling over the coral reef. In my past year in the DR I have never seen so many tropical fish. We were literally swimming through schools of fish. If you didn’t let go of the bread they would gnaw at your finger. After several hours on the islita, we ended the trip by doing a high speed trip through the mangrove forest. I could not help but think that the mangroves would be a perfect filming spot for a James Bond movie, especially with our zippy driver. It was super fun and probably something I would not have done on my Peace Corps budget so thanks Mom and Dad!

Next, we packed up and set off for our final destination: the peninsula of Samana. I was a little nervous because we were at least four to five hours away, if we didn’t get lost, and it was already 1:30. After a very long day of driving through rainstorms and avoiding hordes of motorcyclists with death wishes, we arrived at the peninsula in the town of Las Terrenas around 8:30 pm. Yes we got a little lost several times and yes the rain slowed us down. We spent three nights and two and a half days in the Italian and French ex-pat vacation spot. The beaches are gorgeous and with the amount of rainfall the peninsula receives, it has a rainforest micro-climate. On our second day we hiked to El Limon waterfall. I am happy to say we were the only gringos that didn’t ride the horses; rather, we walked. And I apologize Mom, the last time I did the hike I came from a different direction and it really was relatively flat, I was not trying to lie to you. But we made it to the gorgeous waterfall! The following day we traveled back to sticky, muggy Santo Domingo. We attempted to tour the colonial zone but it was far too hot and uncomfortable. We had a lovely dinner in the colonial zone and the next morning I accompanied my folks back to the airport. We had seen a great deal of the island in a little over a week.

I could not help laughing at the fact that as soon as I kissed Mom and Dad goodbye and sat outside waiting for the bus back into the city, I was surrounded by four different airport workers asking me who I was, how long I’d been in the country, if I was married, and if my husband lived in the country…etc. I quickly snapped out of my blissful tourist high and gave them a piece of my mind. No I was not born yesterday, I have been in the country over a year, and could they please find out when the next bus would be coming.

Thanks for the great visit Mom and Dad! Love you!


The beautiful El Limon waterfall


Mom and Dad surrounded by stray dogs



On the boat heading to the island, early morning


Dad and I at the top of El Morro, MonteCristi


Dad shaving outside at my house,campo style


Lucia and I reunited



Host brother eating a mango



Mom and I with my Dominican mother


with neighbors in Tres Palmas



Buying a Pina


Back in Judea Nueva



With my host family and all the local kids eating mangos


After the rain in Judea Nueva


El Morro, beach by my house


My friends in Judea


Back of my house


Why did the Guinea hen cross the road?


Mom and I in Santo Domingo

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