Monday, September 27, 2010

Bola-ing 101

This past weekend I went to Los Rios, where Sarah (an enviro volunteer) lives. There was a group of about 14 of us there to celebrate her community’s fiestas patronales (saint’s festival). Sarah lives to the south of me, however as public transportation-worthy highways are scarce in the southwest region of the DR, I traveled about an hour to the east, then an hour south, then back toward the west to get to her.

The fiesta was a delightful time and there was even a small Ferris wheel to ride! In true Dominican style, having none of those awful “safety” regulations to follow, they spun that Ferris wheel round and round as fast as they could, making it more of a roller coaster than a Ferris wheel. I’m siding with the Dominicans on this one—I love me a good Jersey shore Ferris wheel but the Dominicans know how to do it best—más rapido! However, the feeling of absolute freeing abandonment is somewhat tapered down by the thought that, at any moment, the rust that has been corroding this old not-taken-care-of Ferris wheel could send your Ferris wheel seat flying out into the starry night. At least my last Ferris wheel ride would have been amazing.

So Sunday, Elise (an enviro volunteer who kind of lives near me) and I decided to hell with going all the way back east to get up to our sites. We’d gotten word that there was a new highway being constructed with a more direct route to San Juan. Unfortunately, it was questionable as to whether it was actually finished or not, and we were told that there was no public transportation there. However, being stubbornly adventurous Peace Corps volunteers who would just about sell our souls to save 5 pesos, we headed for the entrance to this highway. For those geographically capable readers, we arrived to this highway entrance via a guagua (minivan/bus) to Neyba, then a bola to Batey 2. Sidenote: A bola means “free ride.” It’s the equivalent of hitchhiking in the States, but much less taboo here in the DR. It is also the one activity in this country that is somewhat easier for women to accomplish as we not only look less threatening, but perhaps if the bola-giver is lucky enough, he might mangar a visa to the U.S. Yeah, okay.

So we arrive unscathed at the entrance to the carreterra nueva. I wish I had had my camera so I could show you fine folks a picture. I’ve been to many a place in this country and elsewhere that seemed to be the middle of nowhere, but this highway, the way it stretched back into the mountains, the way it had nothing but sugarcane fields in every immediate direction, the way there were no cars or shade-bearing trees anywhere in sight. This, I was sure, was the actual physical center point of “nowhere.” While it would have been smart at this point to give up on our dream of riding the carreterra nueva and continue on to the usual eastward route, we decided to stick it out. So we started walking. If there had been a helicopter with a camera crew above us filming, we could have made this into an opening scene for some sort of film—horror, adventure, the possibilities are endless.

To shorten this up a bit, we eventually caught a bola with an 18-wheeler headed for Vallejuelo. We made such good friends with Bobby and Hansel (yes, these were their authentic Dominican-given names), that we detoured from San Juan to go have lunch at Bobby’s family’s house (where I ate goat for the first time) and then got a bola to San Juan in some sort of PT Cruiser-esque vehicle driven by a guy who I’m pretty sure is the Haitian James Earl Jones (every time he spoke, I thought of Bell Atlantic).

To end this story, I’d like to inform all of you that our trip (which was meant to be a shortcut) ended up taking 5 ½ hours. The other way—the one that goes all the way east, then back west, takes about 3 hours. However, the extra time was completely worth the beautiful mountain views, the free meal, the 200 pesos saved, and the fact that we can now claim to have ridden on the carreterra nueva (which I have already boasted about to at least half my town). All in all, a successful experience.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Getting ready to fry up some "rulo" in the dark...

“Is that a microwave?!”

So let me tell you a little story about life in Peace Corps Africa. I know, you say, I’m not in Peace Corps Africa. And you would be very correct. But, let’s start here: When I find myself complaining about stuff here (the fleeting electricity, the cold bucket baths, the dirt that falls down from my tin roof, etc., etc.), I like to say—well, could be worse, I could be out in Africa. Not that I wouldn’t have loved being out in Africa. Let’s be honest, I was a little wah, wah when I found out I was going to the DR, what good would I be in the country of the famous Punta Cana spring break? But when things get tedious out here, when I’m sitting around on a Wednesday night doing nothing by candlelight trying to catch a breeze through my slatted windows (I know, could I sound any more destitute?), I say—at least I’m not in Africa.

So fast forward: My friend Andrea (who I haven’t seen in 5 years, since our big round-the-world Semester at Sea trip) comes to visit. She’s doing this amazing thing called JetBlue’s All You Can Jet. She paid 500 bucks and can fly anywhere in the U.S. for free and parts of the Caribbean/Central America/South America for only the international taxes. Awesome, right? So Andrea’s got this family friend who happens to be doing Peace Corps Namibia right now. She left in March as well. Andrea’s mom has been keeping me updated with a few stories about this chica and up until now I couldn’t say I envied her.

Well, recently, Andrea and I decided to check out this girl on facebook, Andrea said she thought there was a picture of where she lived on there (and that it was a “pretty decent place”). We find this photo, and…ummm…this place is nicer than the townhouse I lived in at college! Part of it has hardwood floors, she’s got like Pier 1 light fixtures, an oven AND a microwave, 24-hour electricity, HOT running water, Ikea-looking furniture. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has air-conditioning. While I am sure this is not how everyone in Peace Corps Namibia lives, I will no longer say—at least I’m not in Africa. And I do feel better about the fact that I’m in the DR. We may have Punta Cana, but at least I’m overcoming arbitrary life challenges like doing nothing by candlelight on a Wednesday night and trying to catch a breeze through my slatted windows.

So on to important things…how to replace my old, decayed mantra of not being in Africa? I will now say—well, could be worse, at least I’m not Cliff. Cliff is an environmental volunteer (gotta love those enviros) here in my region of the DR. Cliff has NO electricity. Cliff has to hike over a 2-hour hill just to get into his site. Cliff grows his own food. So now, when I am annoyed that I have to sweep random debris from my bathroom floor for the 3rd time today, I will sit back, take a deep breath, and say: At least I’m not Cliff.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

"Quiero una americana. Pa' que? Pa' manga mi visa!"

Let me apologize to those who actually look forward to reading this thing for not having posted in almost 2 months. Things have been surprisingly busy and the Internet predictably slow. Besides, now that I have gone back to eating pbjs every day, I have nothing exotic to share with the world. In a short sum of things, I finished my first round of English classes--success!--and I start a new round on Tuesday. I'm also preparing an intensive Photoshop course so I can certify my two comp teachers here in the community center. Tambien, I'm starting to gather some jovenes to make a club de informatica/community service, and I'm trying to help the solo soccer team in town get some uniformes (insert desperate plea for help here). Plus, in very exciting news, I had my first visitor! G came to visit and we did lots of fun stuff--like go into San Juan, visit Chloe (another volunteer), see the zona colonial in the capital, and go to the beeeach! He also, of course, played some futbol with the muchachos here and experienced fritos (fried green plantains). I have another visitor showing up tomorrow--Andrea from SAS, and my house is rather messy (let's just say my bathroom mine as well be outside--I'm pretty sure it's grosser than a latrine right now). So, in other words, I have not much time to write you well-intentioned Americans who are nice enough to skim this boldly artistic venture of mine. In the meantime, enjoy the above song lyrics (the ones in the title of this post, duh)--lord knows I do every freaking day of my blessed life here. Nos vemos!