When You Comin Home Son I Don't Know When...

We'll be together then. You know we'll have a good time then.

So I just booked my flight home for my two week whirlwind visit to the states. I'm coming home on September 23rd and will be leaving on October 7th. Mark your calendars.

My reason for coming home then is because it will be over a year since I've seen some of my family and friends. Also, it still won't be freezing cold (although since 60˚F is now cold to me, I'm sure when you see me I will be wearing my gloves, scarf and winter coat.)

Things I'm going to do when I'm home:

1. Take multiple hot showers every day. At least two, but if I'm at home enough, that number could increase to 3 or 4.

2. Go to Potbelly's for a wreck and a cookie. I had a dream about this the other week and I've been craving it ever since.

3. Eat a good steak.

4. Watch high-definition television with surround sound while surfing the internet...in my underwear.

5. Take public transportation and not drive. I figured I made it for a year in a developing country without driving, I for sure could make it in the developed world for two weeks without driving. Not even to mention the cost of gas. Although I wouldn't mind if someone wanted to volunteer to be my personal chofer.

6. Go to Parisi's Drive In and get one of everything on the menu. Well, maybe not everything, but at least a meatball sandwich, an Italian steak, an Italian beef, and a Chicago hot dog.

That's it that I can think of on my list for now...it's kind of trivial, but yeah...that's life.

Aqueduct Update

So no, I didn't die after the last post once I was out of the hospital. I've been completely healthy ever since. The reality is that my life for the past few weeks hasn't really been that exciting and there really hasn't been anything to blog about...until now.

We got turned down for our latest grant proposal. We waited for about a month on what seemed like a done deal. The lady at the foundation we met with seemed pretty encouraging and confident that we would get the money we needed, but it didn't turn out that way. She called and basically said we don't fit in their budget for this year, but that we could try again next year.

Now I'm in Santiago working on another grant. And guess where the money comes from? Yep, that's right, all my lovely blog readers and friends and family back in the states. I was really hoping it wouldn't come to this as my friends and family already do so much for me and I didn't want to have to beg for money. But, it will probably be one of the only times in your life that you could donate money and actually see the physical results. All of those who donate will be treated to regular updates on my blog about how construction is going (including pictures).

I just finished the grant and I'm submitting it today, so it should take a few weeks until the project is open for donations. When it is I will post the link and feel free to give whatever amount you can.

In total for this grant I need to raise $5000. I won't see any of that money until the complete $5000 is raised. Also, if you know of any rich people or have connections to any foundations or anything that like to support development projects, let me know of contact information that I can send a formal proposal too. In total the project's cost is around US$25,000.

I also filled out another grant to get around US$6,000 through some fund which supports development projects. Next Wednesday I'm going with my boss and some other volunteers to solicit money from the public water works company which has been supportive in the past. Then the week after that I have a meeting with people in charge of the European Funds, which have been given half of project budgets in the past.

So even though I haven't started the actual construction of the aqueduct, I'm still working, which many people in my community don't seem to understand. I constantly get asked when we are going to start, and I can't really give them a firm answer because I have no idea when we are going to get funding. My project partner totally understands the whole process, but he told me that many people were under the impression that I was going to come in and start construction fairly rapidly, which was never the case. But whatever. Peace Corps has completed I think around 50 aqueducts in this country, and this is a pretty normal schedule for the way things are going.

You Haven't Spent Enough Time in a 3rd World Country Until You've Spent Time in One of Their Hospitals...As a Patient

Since Tuesday afternoon I've been checked into the Clinica Abreu, one of the good hospitals down here. I never told my family, so we'll see how long it takes for me to get a phone call after they read this.

The day after I posted last, when I was feeling fine, I woke up with a fever of 102. I had to go to the lab for some blood tests, and when I got back to the hostel I basically just slept most of the day so that it would go away. It never did, and around 1 pm I called the doctor and she told me she would come visit me. When she came and visited she told me that she had arranged a room at the hospital and that a driver would be coming to get me soon. I was thrilled!

So just to ease all you worries, the doctor even told me, that what I had isn't something that they would probably ever hospitalize me for in the U.S., it's just that it's easier and more comfortable on my part for me to be there (they have cable tv, air, hot water showers, and free wifi!). Also, I wouldn't have to be taking taxis back and forth from the hostel and the lab. So they were doing hemograms every day, sometimes twice a day, and I was hooked up to an IV with fluids to keep me hydrated.

After completing a multitude of tests, all of them came back negative, so no cool tropical sounding disease like malaria or dengue (or thanks to Natania...the dandy fever...I knew I wasn't feeling that dandy). I just had some other weird unnamed tropical disease.

Now I don't want to jinx it like I did last time, but I'm feeling completely fine, and they told me all of my blood levels are really good, and it's been two days since I've felt fine. To celebrate, I'm planning on going to the only Wendy's here in the DR with some friends. Hopefully it doesn't land me back in here with a myocardial infarction or something, because man, after all this hospital food, you know I'm getting a feast.

Apparently though I need to spend a few more days in the capital which I'm not happy about...I'm really ready to get out of here. I had planned a night at the Hub in Santiago with some friends to cook a big dinner this Saturday, but it looks like I probably won't be making it. Sad day. To add to all this, I need to be back in the capital a month from now for another week of language training, which we need since we're at the 6 month volunteer mark. Whatever...the life of a PCV. Well at least I have a good story about being in a hospital in a 3rd world country that I can tell the kids I'm never having someday.

So it's official...I'm leaving the hospital right now!

Things I've done while in the hospital:

1. Become efficient at surfing the internet again. I am not back up to my pre DR efficiency, but it was getting up there.

2. Become acquainted with all the bad reality shows I hate to love, including but not limited to: Next, Made and the Girls Next Door.

3. Watch reruns of old TV shows, including but not limited to: Saved by the Bell, The Fresh Prince, Friends and Everybody Loves Raymond.

4. Watch the Chicago WGN channel 9 news at 9 for the past 3 nights

5. Eaten really crappy food, except for one morning when I got frosted flakes

Sick - Update 1

So after feeling like sunshine yesterday, today I unfortunately woke up with 102 fever. I had to go get my blood drawn, so a driver came and brought me to the lab. I really felt like dump today. After I got my blood drawn I went back to the hostel and just slept the rest of the day. Still no word on the Dengue, but the doctor is pretty certain that's what it is.

Right now I'm feeling pretty much back to normal again though. No fever nor aches or pains. I'll let you know if it's Dengue as soon as I do.

Sick

So I'll preface this post by saying that I feel pretty good now, so don't start worrying when you're reading the rest of the post.

It all started Wednesday night, into Thursday. I felt really warm in bed, like I had a fever, then I would keep getting the chills, and then the sweats, and body aches and stuff. I woke up on Thursday and took my temperature and it was 101˚F. So I popped some motrin, ate some breakfast and went back to bed. I pretty much slept the whole day, save for lunch and dinner, and about an hour or two after dinner. During the night again on Thursday it was more of the chills and sweats and the fever continued. Friday was pretty much a repeat of Thursday with sleeping the whole day and feeling like poop. Saturday I felt a little better, but still not up to par, and my community was getting a little worried about me, so I told them I'd call my doctor. I called her and she told me the symptoms sounded to her like it could be dengue and that I should come into the capital on Sunday to get some blood tests.

So Sunday morning I woke up nice and early after not getting too much sleep, make my way down to the capital, got my blood tests and checked into my private room at the hostel, complete with air conditioning and cable tv, all paid for by the Peace Corps, or more correctly, you guys, the taxpayers. I wish I had brought my camera so I can show you guys a picture of the room I'm in, not to show you how nice it is, but to show you how cheesy it is. It seriously looks it came from the set of a 70's porn film, not that I've actually seen any 70's porn movies, but this is what I'd imagine them to look like. Or it could be some cheesy motel room. Or maybe a 70's porn that was filmed inside a cheesy motel room...yeah that's it. But the real sad thing is how nice this place actually seems to me. My, how standards have dropped. But it is nice that there are no cocks crowing right outside my window or dogs barking. I've pretty much gotten used to all the animal noises at my site, but when you're sick, they're amplified by about 100 and you want to go out there with a machete and kill them all.

So here I am, it's Monday, I'm feeling a lot better. To celebrate feeling better I walked to McDonalds and got a Big Mac Super Value Meal...supersized. The doctor called me and told me that the results of the Dengue test were not in yet, but that my platelet count was low and that that is usually a sign that it could be Dengue. Tomorrow she wants me to go to the lab again to get my blood drawn to see how my platelets are doing, and also the Dengue results should be in tomorrow as well. I'll keep you all updated on how I'm feeling and if I have some weird tropical disease.

The Water Boy

This story was written by a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer in country, and was published in our Peace Corps DR Magazine, The Gringo Grita. The Gringo Grita is a volunteer-run magazine that publishes stories by volunteers, and other random things related to serving as a Volunteer here in the DR. I typed up below the following story which I found very inspiring and I thought that you all would enjoy it. It was actually the first time that I shed a tear hear. Make sure that you have your tissue nearby. Here it goes:

“As much as prospective Peace Corps Volunteers like to read, inquire, and dream about what their service will be like or what they will be able to accomplish, nothing will ever suffice to replicate the feelings and connections Volunteers experience until they learn for themselves.

I have been in a rural campo in the southwest of the Dominican Republic for just over a year, and my efforts as a Health Extension Volunteer have shown little “statistical” success. Though our experiences are truly about personal connections and augmenting self-discovery among the people with whom we work, as well as within ourselves. One of my greatest successes, thus far, has been just that: a relationship that has developed slowly and unexpectedly, one that infused me with a genuine curiosity to learn more about the way people think and feel about themselves and who they are in their world.

I first met Yilo when I was living with my host family and his gravelly, low-toned, monotonous voice gave me a tweak in my neck. How curiously odd he was: always leaning up against the struts of the doorways, listening to familias talk amongst themselves, and nibbling the end of the rope that he uses to secure his waterbucket to his head.

Yilo is stout, extremely dark skinned, and broadfaced. He is my campo’s water boy, a self-fashioned job. He carries water from the river in a five-gallon bucket balanced on his head, with two one-gallon jugs in each of his hands. He makes this trip to houses in the campo about twelve times a day and gets paid five pesos a trip. Yilo was born in the mountains to a single mother of eight children, who has, for the most part, renounced him.

The children are surprised that Yilo and I are such good friends. He is a smart young man full of positive intention and genuine inquisitiveness. He is a good and loyal friend. His pure innocence is bitterly and sweetly heartbreaking. He brings water to my house for five pesos a gallon and waits to eat my left-over oatmeal with raisins at six-thirty in the morning. He has never asked for more than I offer and never expected it either. I am amazed, when I stop to think, how much distance there is between us most of the time. This difference is the driving force behind our curiosity of one another. Often I am pleasantly surprised when he is my first visitor of the day, and I am interested in what he is thinking and feeling, almost always.

No one that I have met thus far in my community is more dedicated, less-intrusive, or more judicious about his work than Yilo: I have never seen him wear shoes; he works during thunderstorms and when it is dark, bearing the same hole-riddled turquoise polo-che and worn jean shorts. He endures constant teasing, which stems from the Dominican cultural distaste for Haitian-like attributes. He is called crazy for his eccentric mannerisms and awkward voice. I believe though, that the community desperately adores him for the work he does, only they do not know how to embrace him.

Yilo has won my full respect. When I began an acta de nacimiento project with my community members I quickly learned more about Yilo’s blind, fierce determination. Even without understanding the true significance of an acta – without which one cannot attend school past eighth grade, participate in the national health care program, nor enroll in the national food program – Yilo immediately realized the importance of getting his own. He recognized it was the ticket to some sort of “freedom” of opportunity, although most of his neighbors and friends mocked him for the desire to want more for himself. After learning the requirements for the acta, Yilo would pass my house daily, carrying his water, asking me how I could help him get to the pueblo to get his own.

Community member began openly discussing the absurdity of his desire to get an acta. “What would Yilo be able to do in the pueblo?” most of them mocked. And when I would ask Yilo how old he was, Yilo would turn to me with a blank face, as if I could decipher his age. Who really knew? That was, and is, trouble. Even though Yilo has made a way for himself here, where people know him and “love” him, would he be able to make a way form himself outside of this world?

We came to the conclusion that Yilo is twenty-six years old. After several weeks of finagling his mother (who was afraid of the white woman) into giving us her cedula in order to make copies, we found his birth date on a tattered old sheet of paper, tucked away in a plastic bag in her house.

Yilo arrived at my house on the arranged day, at the appointed time, with a freshly shaven head (the wrinkles on his head from the pressure of bucket-carrying, now more pronounced), in a clean polo-che, a clean pair of stone-washed jeans, and wearing tennis shoes. I had never seen Yilo in tennis shoes.

We proudly cruised down the mountain on two motors, one trailing the other. I could feel the grin on my face as I watched Yilo brace himself for the trip. Was it fear, excitement? This is something he had anticipated for a long time. After the commotion of the motorcycles zooming past our final destination, paying the motoconchisto, and fending off the hum of the traffic, I heard Yilo mumble to me under his breath in that very predictable monotone, “Adrianna…Adrianna, I have never been here before.”

I was distracted a bit. “What Yilo?”

He said, “I have never been here before.” In that moment, I felt his innocence. I felt his excitement. He looked at me wide-eyed and was grinning, a little nervous.

“Really, Yilo, you have never been here before?”

He said honestly, frankly, without shame, “No Adrianna, this is my first time in the pueblo.” Time stood still for a moment, and I forgot what I had been thinking: errands I must run while with him, who I must contact in the States now that my cell phone had a signal. My energy was focused on him; he hadn’t left the campo in twenty-six years. Imagine that. TODAY was the day.

After all of the hubbub of figuring out how to get him here, I realized why the whole world was making such a big deal about Yilo’s trip to the pueblo. Why hadn’t anyone told me? Why hadn’t anyone else in the community thought to bring Yilo to the pueblo? Was it for lack of resources, or the fact that the others are so focused on their own needs and desires that no one would stop to think about Yilo? During those first moments of his day in the pueblo, I sat thinking: What had I done in the past twenty-five years of my own life? What had I learned? Where had I been? To place myself in his shoes, in that instant, blew my mind.

Perhaps the community members were right: what would Yilo do in the pueblo? But I began to realize, watching Yilo cross the street by himself and looking to me for guidance, that was not what mattered. This is what he had been waiting for – something new, something different. “Today is a very proud day,” I told him. I was beside myself; Yilo was too. How amazing it was to discover the streets of the pueblo, for the very first time, through Yilo. He was attentive to every moment, alive and alert.

Our experience as Peace Corps Volunteers often befuddles so many people back at home. What can one person really do to help a village of hungry people? How can one young person possibly do anything to help change a peoples’ future? On a grand level, I have asked myself those same questions. When the days are slow and projects seem to be failing due to cross-cultural miscommunication or a lack of self-motivation, I do, indeed, question my own desire to help. But then I remember what it is that teaches me to continue to move forward.

Our job as Volunteers is not to save villages of malnourished children. It never was. We are only catalysts for change: intermediaries. When we work to create opportunity for others, the true joy and responsibility of our service comes to life. Yilo came alive the morning he recognized he had moved beyond a world that seemed stagnant to him. Yilo was a voice that needed to be heard. Who would have known his need if no one had been there to recognize him? The impact of our friendship reverberates within those community members who witness our interactions, despite our differences – the color of our skin; our gender; our ever-so-obvious economic disparity; the sounds of our voices. Perhaps this is what will drive him for the rest of his life, whether or not he ever moves beyond the boundaries of the world from which he came. What can we do to ensure that our efforts are productive?

I feel helpless, though, that he is waiting for ME to be the one standing in line to shift all of the right documents through the judge’s hands in the Oficialia, only to hear her accuse him of being illegal, or previously ill-declared, or God only knows.

His dignity and self-value grows among the members of his community every time a child learns to respect him for his work. His hope is renewed every time he moves one step closer to being a fully documented Dominican citizen. Finally, the government will recognize him as an individual. We must be true to ourselves as humans with hearts that are open to connection and understanding. Yilo still does not have his acta de nacimiento; we are still waiting. I am certain that his dreams for his future are strong, much stronger than they were before. Maybe he will never stop carrying water; years from now he may still go barefoot, walking the muddy streets with a bucket on his head, proudly determined. Perhaps when the opportunity presents itself for him to ‘move forward’ he will have realized that his work is too important, his place in his world too special and too valued, despite the constant controversies he faces. I am almost sure of that. But I do know that his story will have echoed in the lives of so many people, inspiring them to work harder, dream bigger, laugh harder and love deeper. Yilo has made my job effortless in this way. My job now is to continue working for him to guarantee that his story will live on.”

-Adrienne Gilbert
Healthy Families
El Batey, San Juan de La Maguana

I will continue to post stories I like that are published in the Gringo Grita. I already have one lined up. Once I get it all typed up I’ll be sure to post it

Rice Shortage

I wrote this when I was back at my site about 2 weeks ago. Sorry if the rice shortage is over.

No, there is not a rice shortage here, but apparently I heard that there is a rice shortage in the U.S. I saw it on CNN in Spanish, but I'd imagine that most of you guys reading this have not even heard about it. I haven't seen anything about it on CNN in English yet. Apparently though, Sam's Club and Costco have placed limits on the amount of rice any one customer can buy.

My Doña was the person that was telling me about it. It was quite the interesting conversation. She asked me how much prices were going to raise in the colmados. Hmm, how do I explain to her that there are no such things as colmados in the U.S. Also, how do I explain to her that rice isn't really a staple food for everyone like it is here, so it's not as huge of a problem as if there was one here. I told her that I maybe ate rice once a week back in the states and she couldn't believe it, because here we eat it everyday. I also told her that I thought it was more of the minorities that eat rice more often. Gosh, I probably sound really discriminatory and ignorant on this issue, so please forgive me. Also, forgive give me if it is a bigger problem than I'm making it sound. But anyways, just another little tidbit of my life I thought you might enjoy.

Fetching Water

First of all, let me explain the title a little further, and tell you why I used the word fetch. The word we use here for when people go to get water is "buscar." I don't have my dictionary near me and I don't feel like going to look up the word, but I'm pretty sure the literal translation is "search for." The verb buscar is also used if you are asking someone to get you something, as in "buscame un vaso de jugo," or "fetch me a glass of juice." (The more I look at the word fetch, the more it is not making sense to me anymore, because dogs fetch, but whatever, I'm rolling with it for now.) So anyways, I didn't want to the title the post "searching for water," because we already know where it is located, we just have to go get it. I also didn't think that "getting water" had a nice enough ring to it. Anyways, enough with the thought processes that go on in my head and on to the actual meat and potatoes of the the story.

After lunch I was playing with the little kids that live near me. We were playing tag, frisbee, they took me to the guava tree to pick some fresh fruit. (By the way, when we were playing tag they were amazed at how fast I ran. They were all saying in Spanish: "ay Kelvin, no sabíamos que tú puedes corre tan rápido así," which translates to, "Kevin, we didn't know you could run so fast like that." This is usually because they see me sitting on the porch reading. Now that I think about it, it probably was the first time I really ran ran at my site here. I play frisbee all the time but usually that only involves jogging. Playing tag is another story. You have to run and escape and what not. So yeah, the fat American guy can run.) After I was all wore out from running around, I took a rest on the porch, and after a few minutes, some other older kids and some of the younger ones came back with gallons in their hands and asked me if I wanted to go to the river with them to get water. I figured sure why not. I hadn't been to the river in a long time, nor in that part of the community, and thought it would be a chance to make my appearance down there and say hi to everyone along the way.

On the way down I had an interesting conversation with some of the boys. The poorer families here still use wood burning stoves as they don't have money to buy the propane. The wood that they use for cooking is called leña. Just like they do with the water, they also have to buscar leña. So the boys were telling me that after we're done with the aqueduct they won't have to buscar water anymore, and that wouldn't it be awesome if we could do a leña project so they don't have to buscar leña anymore either and they would have so much free time. They were even coming up with ideas on how we could go about doing it. We could either go upstream in the river and put all the logs in the river and float them down, or we could build a train-like system. This way, they would only have to go once a month and just cut down a lot of wood at a time, and bring it down through the river or the train, rather than having to do it daily. I could tell they were just joking around, but it was still pretty ingenious of them to be coming up with ideas and stuff.

So we arrived at the river and they filled up their gallons and they were also going to bathe. They asked me if I was going to bathe as well, but I said no, because it had been raining the past couple of days, and the water wasn't that clean looking and I figured that bathing in it was kind of counter productive. I did get my feet wet a little though.

On the way back up we had a discussion about apodos (nicknames) and what mine was. They all know me as Kevin (well really, Kelvin, because that is a more common name here and so they are accustomed to having the L there.) They were all asking me what my other names were. Here in the DR, it is very common to have at least two names. One is your real true name that is on your birth certificate and the other is just the nickname that everyone calls you. I would say that the majority of the times, the nickname is either just another regular name, or something about your appearance. I told them that I didn't have any, but that where I was working back in the states, that people called me K-Sed. Unfortunately, Dominicans can't pronounce that too well, nor do they understand why it's funny because the Dominicans that I live with probably don't even know who Britney Spears is, let alone Kevin Federline. So, I still don't have a nickname here, just Kelvin. I quite certain though that once we start construction on the aqueduct that people will come up with a few.

On the way back I also helped carry some of the water and some of the leña they found along the way. They also knocked down some oranges that aren't exactly ripe yet but were good nonetheless. I showed them how to juggle and they were pretty amazed, though they still haven't learned how to do it with three. They could only do it with two.

So that is your little peak into the lives of the muchachos (younger boys) here.