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Saturday, January 21, 2006

In Which I Give A Vocabulary Lesson

Just so you all know, I should not be using this computer. In fact, it is HIGHLY ILLEGAL, and there is a little sign posted upon said computer stating "Esta computadora es para uso exclusivo de PCVs, NO PARA RPCVs o VISITANTES."

Then, in english below, it says, "This computer is for the exclusive use of PCVs, NOT FOR RPCVs or VISITORS," which is how I understood I should not be using it. I am currently experiencing a delightful little tingle of illicitness.

But enough small talk.

This is a short entry designed to teach the reader a lesson in Dominican, a variant of the Spanish mother tongue. Notice, as you read, my rigorous and impeccable use of the OED's stringent guidelines for creating a proper dictionary definition. Let us begin:

un chin [oon CHEEN] -n- a little bit; can be emphasized as following: "I only want (except pretend that part was in spanish) un chinininininininininininin."

una china [OO-na CHEEN-a] -n- an orange (for eating); origin --> Let's just say those shipping crates for Asia were not, in fact, labeled ORANGE.

un safacon [oon saf-ah-KON] -n- trash bin; origin --> This word is the result of an old NYC recycling campaign, onto which they printed "Save A Can" onto all public trash recepticles. The importation of such a word is made possible by the friendly fluidity of personages, material goods, and bastardized ad campaigns between Nueva York (see definition below) and the Dominican Republic.

Nueva York [noo-EH-vah YORK] -n- 1. New York City, NY 2. United States of America.
e.g. "I went to Nueva York for the holidays to see my family."
"And where in Nueva York does your family live?"
"Phoenix."

los paises [lohs paiy-EE-sez] -pl. n- 1. the countries 2. anywhere that is not the Dominican Republic; more a mindset than, perhaps, a proper noun. (syn. alla [ay-YAH] -n- literal meaning: over there)
for instance: "I hear you were gone in los paises for the holidays!"
"Yes, I went to Boston to visit my aunt."
"Did you see my cousins there?"
"I don't think so, where do they live?"
"In Spain!"

con-con [KON-KON] -n- the cohesive mass of burnt and oil-saturated rice found the bottom of the rice pot. considered a delicacy.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

In Which I Love The Loma

Ahhh the loma!!

This is the code word for Kate´s Official Site, Las Aguas Negras, i.e. the mountain top farming village to which Kate was assigned. And it´s not so much code word as to how people affectionately refer to their mountain top home as they commute back and forth between the bustling town of Pedernales and the small community of Las Aguas Negras. Kate began her PC service living exclusively up the mountain, and then as her work and projects brought her down the mountain more and more she eventually moved her base of operation to Pedernales. She now spends the majority of the week down here and one to three nights up top. We just returned yesterday from our last stint up there before my imminent departure (oh the sadness), and it only served to remind me of just how wonderful life up there truly is.

For instance, up on the loma, we eat chocolate soup for dinner. It´s considered delicious and nutritious and is a completely acceptable dining choice. Staying true to the Dominican Philosophy of Food, chocolate soup contains: 1. water 2. flour 3. block of hot chocolate mix (i.e. one part chocolate to two parts sugar) 4. sugar 5. Carnation sweetened condensed milk 6. nutmeg. After stirring together until fully mixed and hot, one then ladles out generous portions to be eaten with hot dog rolls, the Dominican equivalent of ¨bread¨.

So basically, I´m coming home 25 pounds heavier as well as diabetic.

The loma, being a small community of approximately 45 houses occupied full-time, is also a tightly knit community, where everyone knows everyone else (as well as everyone elses business). One of the main loma activities is porch hopping. Kate and I spent a good portion of our days on the loma going a-visiting, walking around to different houses, where inevitably we were invited to sit down for a bit, and then coffee was inevitably offered (shockingly, the coffee here is made with a LOT of tasty sugar), and we would sit and chat until our coffee was finished and then we´d go to the next house over and do it all again! In this way I got to hear some of the good town gossip, for instance the identification of the town drunk, as well as witness such sights as a small boy fall off a horse, get back on in exactly the same way, and fall off three seconds later, ¨just like an avocado¨ (he was fine, so it was okay that it was really, really funny).

What is also possible in the fashion of porch hopping for coffee: Kate has perfected the art of showing up at ¨un buen tiempo,¨ or at ¨a good time¨ (Future PCVs, take note! This is an essential survival method of all volunteers). It being meal time, and Kate and I having little of our own resources on the loma, we would go visiting one of her favorite doñas when the afternoon meal was conveniently on the stove. As Kate called hello, said doña would emerge, all smiles, to throw her arms around Kate and to tell us that we had arrived at ¨un buen tiempo¨ and that we should sit down and have something to eat. Soon, our bellies would be full of the loma staple of rice and beans, usually with a bit of fried salami or chicken just for fun. Wonderful.

This recourse was only necessary, however, when Kate´s host family´s house was empty of all domestically inclined members, i.e. the wimmens. Apparently, her host family´s house went from being one of the most popular hangouts on the loma to a fairly empty house with the departure of her host mom to Spain and her host sister to University. Now it´s only the dad there, and when Wilma (her amazing host sister, who is also one of Kate´s best friends here, who is also coming to the States for a bit this summer) isn´t around, the visiting method is induced. However, this last weekend Wilma was home as classes don´t start until next week, and the house was full of laughter, music, good cheer, and fooooooood. Another plus of Wilma being home: Kate and I sleep in the house. Because otherwise we sleep cold and alone in the street. No no just for joke!! But maybe only half-joke. If it´s just the dad at home, it´s a little bit weird for Kate to sleep there, so instead she was given a room in the family´s extra storage house. It´s a house just like all the others in the town, except there´s no furniture, no latrine, no electricity, and the only occupied room is Kate´s bedroom. When we first got back, we had to do a bit of cleaning as the room hadn´t been touched in the month and a half Kate had been gone, and in the process we found a bitty little dead scorpion on the mosquito net (but on the outside! so the net works!!!) and a large dead cockroach who chose to die under the fitted sheet (so the net almost works!!). Sleeping is a bit scary in the very, very empty house, save for the old chicken cages in the room next door, and apparently it´s even worse when Kate´s there all by her lonesome. On her to-do list: find better sleeping arrangements.

Scary house aside, sleeping in the loma is a lovely thing. Being up the mountain, everything there is decidedly cooler than in Pedernales, and I actually had to utilize a sweatshirt now and again. It also rains with greater frequency, leaving everything a little bit fresher and the light filtering in soft focus. And oooh oooh!! Now that it´s winter, the loma is basically considered freezing by its inhabitants, and shivering under long sleeved shirts and such is a common occurance. The most novel method to stay warm I have seen so far, however, has been the young man Kate and I saw whilst out walking one day - fully done up in one too-small women´s snow suit that seemed to be pulling at all the wrong places. When Kate came upon this marvelous sight, her eyes got huge, she stopped in her tracks, and as soon as she could wheeze out the question through gales of laughter she asked her buddy what exactly he was wearing, at which point he responded it was a suit for the cold, and didn´t he look damn good. What else could we say but dang, do you ever.

Hens, roosters, pigs, horses, mules, goats, and pigs run amock on the mountain top. Men adopt favorite fighting roosters, and carry the little devils around like pets. Apparently the cure-all for a sick rooster, by the way, is an injection of chlorine, or when that isn´t available, dish soap does in a pinch. I just have no idea if this is scientifically sound, but I guess it does the trick (unless they overdose it, in which case the rooster just dies).

And now, I must say good-bye to the loma. Ah porch sitting, ah chocolate soup, ah wonderful little mountain community with whom I built latrines and painted libraries, I will miss you.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

In Which I Meet A Cast of Characters

Take a drunk, a mute transvestite, a Canadian soul searcher, a Kurdish world traveler, a guagua driver named Moses, and what do you have? That would be my last 36 hours.

As a little beach break, Kate and I went to one of her favorite ¨get away from it all¨locales yesterday afternoon, located a quick 2 hours from Pedernales. After squishing ourselves into the guagua, and then sitting in the guagua for 15 minutes while the driver got good and ready to leave, we trundled off down the road toward our final destination. We almost didn´t make it out of Pedernales due to the immigration stop every public vehicle is required to make on departure (they have a bit of a problem with illegal Haitian immigration through Pedernales into the D.R. interior), as the dude inspecting our vehicle demanded passports that we didn´t have on us (Kate isn´t allowed, in fact, to carry her passport and has to leave it in the capital). Thank goodness that Kate is skilled at talking her way out of such situations, because phew, we were then allowed to leave.

Of course, three seconds after we left the army station, the guagua stopped to pick up all those passengers who had bypassed the entire inspection by waiting about three steps beyond the army base gate. So, full beyond capacity, the journey continued.

About thirty minutes into the ride, it became entirely noticeable that one man in particular was a talker, to say the least. Whether actually having a conversation with someone or just kind of addressing the van as a whole, his mouth ran almost constantly, unless, of course, his mouth was busy imbibing some of the 1/2 liter rum bottle he all but finished over the course of two hours. I couldn´t understand a single word coming out of his mouth. Kate, fortunately or unfortunately, understood the entirety of it all, and thanks to her translation I was able to find out that no, he wasn´t an alcoholic, he just had to drink a 1/2 liter a day because it was the only way he could get to sleep at night as he just thought way too much and without the booze his thoughts would drive him to insomnia. This home remedy had the side effect, however, of getting him extremely drunk. Imagine.

Things got all the more interesting with a random stop in another small dusty town on the way to the beach, where the guagua driver picked up a woman who was obviously, obviously a man - bright red hair, turquoise eye shadow, and mini-skirt aside. The man-who-was-not-an-alcoholic then had a focus for his attention - he alternately went from rants of what a fag, bird, etc. etc. s/he was to continually passing the bottle in her direction to what seemed to be hitting on her. Oddly enough, the woman-who-was-a-man seemed to not mind, and perhaps even enjoyed the attention. It was unclear, however, as s/he was incapable of speech and instead could only make these odd sounding vocalizations that I can only describe as sounding like a goat bleat. Surreal? A little bit.

And I was very proud of Kate. Having to listen to this guy for two hours straight would drive anyone to the brink, and she held it in almost the whole way to San Rafael. It got to a point, however, when listening to him heap this weird abuse on a mute transvestite grew to be too much and finally she turned to him and said (in english, so as to be less understood) ¨You need to shut up. OH MY GOD will you please just SHUT UP. Someone MUST be able to make this man JUST STOP TALKING.¨ At which point, the non-drunk seemed to feel they were co-conspirators as he started smiling and jabbering away to her and insisted on a few friendly high fives, at which point Kate started hysterically laughing (there was just nothing else to do), and thank goodness, 10 minutes later we were dropped off.

A bit dazed, suffering from hiccups of residual laughter, we headed down to Kate´s hostel respite, and what a respite it was. The small hostel is located basically on a cliffside overlooking the Caribbean Sea far, far below, with a porch facing out over the water where one can see both the sunrise and sunset. Compared to Kate´s house in Pedernales, it´s a mecca of quiet.

On arrival, we were surprise to find two others staying with us there (in the numerous times Kate has gone, she´s always been the only guest), and in fact were greeted by a tallish red head cooking on the stove as soon as we got in with an immediate invitation to join him and his friend for food as there was plenty. Faaaaaantastic!!!

As the sauce simmered, we got to know our fellow hostelers, and turns out the redhead was a 26 year old Canadian who did not have opinions, only feelings, and felt that the world was inherently selfish and pretentious and we´d all be better off if we just gave into it, and thought that pain was just as beautiful as pleasure, and that he found it so much easier to love a man than a woman, because women start out fine but then have all these damn ¨needs¨and ¨expectations¨but luckily his current girlfriend was cool as she seemed to have more testosterone than other women and didn´t weigh him down. I could go on, but basically, that was the Canadian, who shared his strong ¨feelings¨with us about the world whenever he got the chance. For being the loner he claimed to be, he sure sought out a listening audience.

Antonio was his then-traveling companion, who was of Kurdish origin, spoke 10 languages, had 44 years of life stories to relate (much more interesting to listen to than his diahrrea mouth friend), and participated in beach side workouts, lifting heavy rocks and gyrating in interesting fashions for his daily dose of exercise, to the great amusement of his Dominican spectators (and let´s face it, me too). Antonio and the Canadian had a bit of a falling out this morning before Kate and I left, as Canada tried to intervene when Antonio was raging at the fifth person staying in the hostel who was very obviously there for less than illegal pleasures, involving, mayhaps, the young Dominican girl he happened to be hanging around with. Hm.

So in between getting to know these characters, Kate and I went to the beach, and read our books, and had quality time in an absolutely stunning locale, and were both completely unable to sleep thanks to the malaria medication we´ve been taking thanks to a recent scare. We finally took off back to Pedernales around two this afternoon (when we were coming up with a plan for the day, i.e. when to go back, etc. with options a, b, and c, Canada chimed in with option d, which is to like, just go with the flow, and just see where life takes you). Thanks to a bit of money mismanagement on my part, i.e. I completely ran out and there were zero ATMs so my card did nothing, Kate and I ended up with about 50 pesos to get back to Pedernales (Kate had to pay for the room). As it cost 200 for the two of us on a guagua, it looked like we´d have to bola it back.

And damn, did we do a good job.

Not only did we get back in less time than it took to get there, but we got to sit in roomy air-conditioned truck cabs the whole way in a three-part trip. The favorite part: our ride with Moses, leg 2, who promised to part the waters whenever we needed it and on finding out we were bola-ing on account of no funds, insisted on shoving 200 pesos into our hands and refused to let us go without taking it, despite our firmest protests. So not only did we get back for free, BUT we made a profit! Or should I say, prophet? (yes, groan, go ahead).

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

In Which We Must Spend The Night In Pedernales

¨At the western end of Hwy 44, after a long journey through the thorn
forest, is the hot and dusty frontier city of Pedernales, which has nothing to
offer the tourist aside from a few bad hotels and several forgettable
eateries. ...If you must spend the night in Pedernales, look no farther
than the Rossy, next to the Shell has station at the eastern entrance to
town. ...It´s a no-frills place, as is everything in Pedernales.¨
- Lonely Planet, D.R. & Haiti, 2nd edition 2002


What´s not to love about Kate´s Dominican home?

We arrived in Kate´s little corner of paradise after an epic seven hour guagua ride. We knew it was going to be special when our 7:30 a.m. bus was already almost packed with luggage when we were loaded on. Kate got the enviable location in the last row on the makeshift aisle seat, i.e. an upturned bucket covered with a cushion. I was located one row in front of her, next to a kindly abuela with her granddaughter on her knee to my right and a young man to my left who read his bible for most of the journey. It looked as if we might have a fairly comfortable ride with only five altogether in our row of seats when I was distracted by a fairly voluptuous 16 year old girl pushing her way towards the back, yelling at everyone to get out of her way as she had to go sit with her sister. She shoved people aside on the already crowded bus, stepping on and around fellow passengers, as she finally made her way to our row and unceremoniously squeeeeeezed into the small space left that we all had previously been using for such unnecessary things as oxygen. Fully packed in, off we went. It was all quite the adventure for the first two hours, with such luck as to have a blaring radio soundtrack for added cinematic value. The last five hours... let´s just say we survived (poor Kate had a live rooster under her seat which took great pleasure in pecking at her feet now and again).

But make it we did, and now I have the great pleasure of bearing witness to Kate (or Kati, as she is known here) in her Dominican element. We lugged our ridiculous amount of bags to her front door, where she was immediately accosted by thousands of children shouting ¨KATI KATI KATI!!!¨ and begging to be picked up and let in and wondering what Kate had brought for them. Kate´s home is a cozy little five room government built 5 room house (none of the rooms very big, mind you, but just the right size), decorated with treasures found at the famous Haitian market Kate loves so dearly, as well as photos, quotes, and D.R. -related art (including drawings made especially for Kate by the neighborhood kids). We share her mosquito-netted double bed (guards against those darned malaria-ridden nocturnal pests), cook on her double burner portable gas stove, and diligently fill all water buckets for the two hours a day the water comes on.

Kate has introduced me to almost everyone that makes up her little community here (all absolutely ecstatic to see her again... our first few days were punctuated with ¨Kati where have you BEEN? It´s so good to SEE you!!¨), including her 50 year old best friend Lili, a farmer with the coffee association who is also one of Kate´s biggest supporters on the latrine project, her 17 year old best friend Wilma who is off to NMH´s summer program in a few months to learn english, her one year old goddaughter Carla who has just so many teeth, the all important Brujo the batita man, as well as a whole host of others like Lala, Lydia, Maney, Cuca, etc. etc. who all offer delicious highly sweetened coffee or mayhaps a heaping plate of rice, beans, and fried salami when we go a-visiting.

So it´s pretty amazing that in little over than one short year Kate has made a whole life out here, and all in spanish. Which she speaks fluently. So now, of course, I also have to finally and totally learn spanish, because it drives me crazy to almost understand everything and to almost be able to talk to people. Mayhaps the next adventure?? Anyhoo, the hour´s almost up, stories are to come.

Monday, January 09, 2006

In Which I Learn About Cement

So off we went to Nagua, y por supuesto, once again we travelled via guagua. Speaking of which...

!!!!CORRECTION!!!!

A GUAGUA IS NOT WHAT I PREVIOUSLY DEFINED IT TO BE!!! I was close, but Dominican cigars, I had not. After a deeper, more in depth discussion as to what a guagua represents in terms of life, love, and long term happiness, I discovered that it does not, in fact, refer to whether transportation is public or private at all. In fact, the definition gets simpler. A guagua, in the end, is solely a form of transportation expressed in the following equation:

guagua (greater than) car

I had big plans to actually make the mathematical symbol for ¨greater than,¨but these darn keyboards thwart me every time with their lack of symbiosis between what the key says it does versus what it really does. Boy, is foreign travel difficult.

Anyhoo, that´s a guagua. SUVs on up. Back to the narrative...

After another lovely guagua ride, our party was dropped off on a pre-determined street corner to meet Josh, a fellow peace corps volunteer, who was putting us up for the night and showing us around his latrine site the next morning. Soon enough, he came careening down the street on the only mode of transportation PCVs are allowed (and one of my own personal favorites), the bicycle. I have never, ever seen anyone go so fast on a bike. This boy was like a bat out of hell, and screeched to a stop to say hallo after a day of latrine building, so yes, he was realllllly sweaty and dirty, the picture perfect peace corps volunteer.

Oh wait I lied. PCVs are also allowed to own mules as transport, though as far as I know no one has one...

After a quick run to the market, we all headed to Joe and Jill´s, an older volunteer couple who lived right down the road from Josh. They had a beautiful block house (i.e. made of concrete, which in the peace corps world is luxurious) that we could kind of see as the power had gone out and they had no idea when it would come back on. Nonetheless, a delightful Italian meal was prepared by candlelight (puncuated half-way through by the return of electricity, huzzah!). Turns out it was also Josh´s birthday that day, so the whole meal had a festive air. The other PCV in the area also showed up for our little private party, so there were eight of us altogether, a nice little gathering of folks. We got to hear a lot of peace corps dirt, about the trials and tribulations of their work and of the peace corps itself. For instance, Joe and Jill were less than thrilled about half their furniture being stolen on their trip back home for the holidays, including their guest bed, and were more than ready for a return to not-so-bare-boned living. My favorite quote of the evening:

(asked to Joe and Jill): ¨Do you think you´ll do the peace corps again?¨
Joe: ¨Oh definitely, definitely, in a couple of years.¨
Jill: (nods assent, murmerings of agreement)
Joe: ¨Yeah, I mean, well, we´d never do this again, actually.¨

So good times, good times.

That night the four of us split up. Denny and I stayed on the couch/fouton/guest bed (as the other one was stolen) and Kate and Kristina hiked up the road to stay in Josh´s guest room.

Bright and early the next morning, we were called upon (literally. Our alarm clock was Kate´s cellphone with Josh at the other end telling us he was coming to fetch us) to get up and at ´em, today was a big day! Slowly, groggily, Denny and I got ourselves and our stuff together, so that even though we weren´t exactly awake when Josh came to show us the way to his house, at least we could make a passing effort at it. The coffee he gave us at his house helped a bit, for sure.

Our party reassembled, we took a 15 minute stroll to the brick making facility, where Josh had a team of men (working for 1 peso a brick) manufacturing by hand the materials to build the latrines. They used a small manual machine to press the bricks into shape, after which they were left to be cured for awhile under a tarp, emerging only for their twice daily waterings until they were muy fuerte and ready to go. Before this, I had no idea cement was such a delicate flower, needing to be watered and talked to and loved in order for it to reach its full potential, and I was able to learn a valuable lesson to apply to cement as well as life.

Josh then arranged for our passage up to the actual village where the latrine building was happening. Kate and Denny got a bola (aka free ride) on a motorcycle, and Kristina and I took the traditional route of guagua THEN motorcycle. Josh, cyclist extraordinaire, took his bike and beat us to the halfway point.

Aaaaand latrine building. What a project. I won´t go into too much of the logistics, only to say it involves a lot of cement and rebar (moment of pride... I now know what rebar is). It also involved a lot of sitting around and watching and being fairly useless as they constructed the floor of two of ´em. Or should I say, I was useless and Kate and Kristina actually knew what they were doing so could help. But I learned!! And learning is important!!

Finally, enough with the latrines. We then got eat a huuuuuge lunch, prepared by Josh´s assigned doña, of rice, beans, and chicken. Really tasty. As Kate says, with food here, if you can´t add sugar, fry it. Yum.

Then a moto/guagua ride back to where we came from, a gathering of things, a bittersweet parting with Kristina, and Kate, Denny and I took off for Santiago, where he would fly out the next day.

Best thing about Santiago visit number 2: visiting the cigar factory. The morning of Den´s departure, we took a quick visit to the cigar factory of whose name I cannot remember. They gave us a delightful demonstration of how they constructed their finest cigars, gave us a little sample (I tried a puff, and that was MORE than enough... it was a bit too reminiscent of the Indian tobacco fiasco...), and then showed us everything they had for sale. When we informed them we couldn´t really buy anything, but that the whole thing had been great, they gave us coupons for free beer!! Which we didn´t really use, as it was 10:30 in the morning, but still!!

And then Denny flew off into the sunset (okay, fine, afternoon sun, so much less poetic), and then we were two.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

In Which I Love Beach Massages

With the new year successfully ushered in and our own selves fully recovered from the festivities, Kate, Denny, Kristina and myself took off for Rio De San Juan, a small beachside town that offered a quiet and tranquil respite from the party that was Cabarete. After a bus and a moto ride, we were dropped off at the door of Bahia Blanca, a hotel placed right on the water. Our second floor location gave us brilliant views of the Dominican part of the ocean, especially from the deliciously squishy patio furniture located right outside our room. As it was deemed truly impossible to get up once in said chairs, we spent much of our short stay at the Blanca ensconced in their squashy glory. When we aroused the gumption to actually go somewhere other than those black holes of comfort, we made our way to La Playa Grande (basically, The Big Beach) and slept on the sand or played in the warm tropical waves. And oh! The best part? I mean, aside from all mentioned above, and then the tasty fried plantains they offered beachside (best with gallons and gallons of salt)? THAT would have to be the $6 on-the-sand hour long massages we all invested in. My GOODNESS!! How fantastic. It was also a bit of an exfoliating massage, due to all the sand we had gotten on ourselves and which was basically impossible to remove (though the water spritzer and heavy handed oil application our masuesses believed in definitely helped). (How the hell do you spell that, anyway? Massuessssessssssss???)

So I loved it there. A tranquil, lovely little spot, and it would have been a great place to spend a few more days had we had time (though sleeping two to a bed, and having those beds being just slightly bigger than a twin, made it a bit easier to leave...). Rio de San Juan was also the first place I tried a batita, i.e. a delicious fruit milkshake (we all had papaya). The ¨milk¨in milkshake refers to Carnation sweetened condensed milk, which obviously isn´t sweet enough as then they add sugar, and then the fruit. Delightful. Kate lives on these marvels in Pedernales, where she and her Batita man, Brujo, have a longlasting friendship.

After a mere 24 hours in the Paradise of Rio de San Juan, we packed and were off again to our next adventure, this time to El Factor, outside of the larger town of Nagua, to give us all a crash course in latrine building. Stay tuned...

Thursday, January 05, 2006

In Which I Get To A Computer, Finalmente!

Hello, dear readers (i.e., mom)!

At long last, we have reached a point in our journey where computer access is once again a viable option. Not that it wasn't available elsewhere, but I've been on vacation for the last week, and when on Peace Corps vacation, internet isn't high on the list of activities. But what, you may ask, WAS on the list of activities? I'm so glad you asked.

Kate, Denny (Kate's brother), and I arrived in Santiago late last Thursday. Due to the general Dominican efficiency (Evan and Kate, I believe, have much to discuss in terms of compare/contrast), it took us about three hours to get out of the airport, between customs, waiting for our luggage, and then successfully physically leaving the airport. All this activity took place inside one large airport room, so the general feel was of smooshing ourselves into vaguely different areas as directed by vague handwaves of those seemingly in charge until we all of a sudden found ourselves and all our luggage outside. Tadaaaaa!!

The PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer) Place To Stay in Santiago is called The Hub, a hostel-like house specifically built for volunteers and their friends by an extremely generous and friendly Canadian couple. Before the Hub, they had informally let PCVs crash on the floor of their own house, which had resulted in a total influx of volunteers and their friends, family, etc., to the point where they could no longer handle the load and gave them their own abode. Lovely.

The next day we headed off to Veinte Siete Charcos, or 27 Waterfalls, a peace corps project and rapidly growing tourist site. This was an absolutely amazing venture. The three of us got off a bus seemingly in the middle of nowhere, with a tiny little town right across the street. After speaking some rapid-fire Spanish, Kate directed Denny and I to dump our three thousand pounds of luggage in some random house on a random bed, which she explained used to be the room of a volunteer who had recently moved and no longer lived there. Yes, exactly.

Kate then arranged a guide for our quaint group of three, one of the many available in their official Veinte Siete Charcos shirts in a shaded patio by the road. He led us off down a dirt road and through a small footpath until we reached the official beginning site, where we were outfitted with life preservers and helmets (we were GAW-geous). Another group of four PCVs + friends were close behind and so our two groups merged into one for the adventure. And so, properly outfitted in safety-suits-of-hotness and three guides leading the way, we were off!!

The beauty of the entire water hike is better said in pictures, as in, you know all those pictures of tropical waterfalls that are so ridiculous in their sublimity one is convinced they must be fake? Well that's this place. Of course, I spent a great portion of the trip staring at my feet in an effort to stay upright over all the rushing waters and slippery rocks, but the times I looked up, oh MAN, what a sight!! I think perhaps the guides thought I might have been a bit, erm, more special than the rest, as I generally lagged way behind and could not seem to look anywhere but my feet, and they kept asking if I was okay with very, very concerned looks. I just tried to explain that I was like the tortoise, and slow and steady wins the race, but apparently my spanish leaves something to be desired as that only gave them more concern for my sanity.

As PCVs et al., we got to go all the way to the top, to the 27th waterfall, whereas the general practice was to take tourists to the 7th then back down. Therefore, we spent an hour or two scaling up the waterfalls by clamboring over rocks, being hoisted up ropes by our extraordinarily fit guides, swimming through small channels of turquoise waters, etc. etc. Our guides themselves were in their early twenties, and knew the waterfalls like the backs of their hands, and tended to acrobatically swing their way up and down the falls, accompanying their antics with deep bull-like moos and bird calls. One of our group, a muscular Dominican himself, joined right in with monkey hoots, duck quacks, and a Tarzan yell, all in all contributing towards quite the entertaining display as the rest of us awkwardly struggled our way up the topography (and were secretly grateful for the less-than-daring safety equipment adorning our unexperienced selves). The top of the climb found us at the bottom of an intimidating drop, which those who weren't me scrambled to the top of in order to jump down into a thimble sized pool of deep water. My legs turned to jelly just watching. Luckily, there was a total lack of injuries and death. Whew!

Getting down was exhilirating. We jumped down from all sorts of heights into the pools below (though none so high as that at the top, thank goodness), slid down natural slides, rapelled down a few rock faces, and, like on the way up, tried not to slip and fall too much on the straightaways. The last step was a triumphant leap into a giant pool below, and it all seemed over way too soon. Those of you who ever come to the D.R., GO HERE. So awesome!!!

And so, wet, happy, and a mite bit peckish, we gathered our things and all seven of us took off for Cabarete, our New Year destination, in a guagua.

Vocabulary Sidenote: GUAGUA ~n~ a general term for bus-like vehicle of public transportation, varying in size and comfort level. At best, a large, roomy bus. At worse, a van with 13 seatbelts and 20+ passengers.

Guagua #1 was a nice little bus. I was able to take a short little nap with my bag, brought to an abrupt end by my concerned Dominican co-passenger yelling "WAKE UP AMERICA!!!" in my ear to inform me I didn't have to keep my bag on my lap, I could seat it next to me as there was room.

Guagua #2, not so nice. I think we counted 24 passengers on the small van at one point, and all of us had overloaded bags of luggage on our laps, and also could not breathe, and also had to get out and get back in every time we made one of the many, many stops, where we would let out one person (who was inevitably squished in a corner in the way back) in order to make room for the 8 people waiting to board. Relief, relief, I tell you, when we finally made it to our hotel.

And ooooh, our hotel was so NICE! And CHEAP! It's AMAZING how prices go down when a suite meant for two houses seven!! What with the air mattress, double bed, fold out fouton, and fold out chair, we were set for a New Year's to remember. Besides Kate, Denny, and I, we were staying with Kate's friends Kristina, Samantha, Greg, and Dominic, all completely wonderful people. Apparently almost the entirety of the D.R. Peace Corps was in Cabarete for New Years, so besides those staying in our delightful be-kitchened suite, I met what felt like three zillion other volunteers throughout our short stay. Needless to say, Cabarete was a fun-filled three day party, and a great place to spend the New Year. Highlights:

~ The Beach. It was so, so nice to once again be in a hot, beachy climate, and get all sandy and salty and sunned.

~ The Pool. Great alternative to the beach when we didn't feel like going any farther than downstairs.

~ Favorite Restaurant: Jose O'Shay's, Cabarete's premiere Irish Beach Bar. They had fantastic nachos (cheese, it seems, is pretty touch and go here), guinness, and tropical beverages presented in coconut shells and hollowed-out pineapples.

~ Pancakes. As PCVs are not rich as a rule, we made pancakes in our little kitchen every day. Aunt Jemima, I tell you. That woman is a genius.

~ The Casino. We went gambling! It was the first time I've ever gone, and after much effort was made getting everyone together and calling a taxi etc., we were driven approximately three doors down to the premiere casino of Cabarete (I swear, it was exactly like the opening scene of L.A. Story...). It was a one room operation, and after Kate and I had gambled away our 100 pesos (i.e. $2.85) on slot machines in one cent increments, we decided the world of chance was not for us and we left the serious gamblers behind to walk the three feet back to our hotel to worship the glories of trash tv.

~ New Years Eve! After some massively fun preparations, the entirety of the peace corps gathered in our small hotel apartment and about half an hour before midnight, we all made our way out to the beach, where music was blasting, fireworks were being set off (and Kate got hit in the leg by an overzealous miscreant... luckily no harm done), and it was generally a hugely rambunctious party.

Ahhh, Cabarete. What a time. Soon enough, all volunteers filtered out, back to their sites and their work. Kate, Kristina, Denny and I stayed until the 2nd before we, too, bid adieu, and boarded a guagua to Rio de San Juan.