Estoy Cansada

I spent this past week in Rio Limpio, a campo about an hour from the Haitian border.

I have so much to say and I'm lacking the words to say it.

My English has been mixed in with my Spanish and I speak a weird version of Spanglish. I no longer know what grammar structure is (I told someone the other day that I had hunger, because that's the literal translation of Spanish).

I just wanted to update and let everyone know that my week long lack of blogging was intentional--I'm okay and everything is good.

I'm so tired. There's a Spanish phrase, "Tengo sueño", which means I'm tired--as in, I have tiredness (dream, actually), and would like to go to sleep. But then, there's "Estoy cansada", which is the "I'm so exhausted mentally and physically that I may fall over any second now". I slept fourteen hours last night and took a two hour nap today. My body is sore. My bug bites itch. My bruises are killing me.

Kristina, 0. Campo, 2 (Rio Limpio and Alta Mira).

On a side note, I would like to ask everyone to keep the people of Chile in their thoughts and prayers. I've seen what the aftermath of an earthquake looks like, and though their earthquake did less damage, lives have still been loss and I'm sure the situation is chaotic.

On the other hand, everywhere I go/have been is being hit by earthquakes in the past few months.

To the people of Australia and South Carolina: Start evacuating now.

Oh, hey

I walked to the bathroom this morning, hoping to brush my teeth and wash my face. Turned the sink on. Nothing.

Turned the water in the shower on. Nothing. (Today was a shower day, too).

Not a drop.

I walked back to my room and was like, "oh, hey third world country. what's up?"

Toiletseats

Yeah, it's not the most glamourous title for a post and it's definitely not the most glamourous topic to talk about to the whole world.

In the states, I have three requirements for a good bathroom (in addition to a functioning toilet/working sink):

1. Toilet Paper
2. Soap
3. Paper towels (not a hand dryer).

However, I didn't realize that there was a fourth requirement: a toilet seat.

The majority of toilets at PUCMM don't have toilet seats, for reasons that are beyond me. I can't imagine that someone would steal a toilet seat, but I suppose it's possible. PUCMM is probably the most expensive school to attend in the Dominican Republic..and yet, they have no toilet seats.

Wild.

To Hell With Good Intentions

Why Am I Here?

Many mornings, I have looked up at my spinning ceiling fan and have thought to myself, “Oh my goodness, WHY AM I HERE?” It's not a “Why am I here” in the sense of I want to go home. And it's not a “Why am I here” in a sense of what am I doing every day. It's a “Why am I here” in the sense that I cannot possibly have anything to offer to the people of the Dominican Republic, to a culture that I cannot possibly understand, with language barriers and communication obstacles. It's a “Why am I here” in the sense that I am simply an American girl with hopes and good intentions, with investigations and projects for a community that I can neither develop or improve.

I questioned this before I came here. I thought about how I could possibly go on a service-learning trip when I had no idea what kind of service I could offer to a community where I am different from the people and have a different culture in every sense of the word. I've avoided thinking about this—I've gone forward thinking about my project and my investigation, careful to not offend those that I'm working with by my culture or my social status. I've been terrified of offending the people that I work with and in my community—what will they think of me? Do I offend them when I ask personal questions about their life? Do I offend them because I don't ask them enough about their lives? Who am I to impose projects in their community? Do they have judgements about me simply because I'm American?

Why am I here?

For the most part, I've ignored these questions that have been swimming in my head. I show up, I smile at the people, I try to show that I'm truly interested in them and their lives, and I leave feeling a little bit better. Until recently. As we've reached the one month mark and our investigations have become more intense, I've been struggling with this a lot.

Why am I here?

For Elaine's class, my independent project/Capstone class, we've been reading articles about service learning, foreign aid, and international development. And today, we read one that hit the nail on the head and left me pleading for an answer to “Why am I here?” Ivan Illich's “To Hell With Good Intentions” hits a little too close to home. In a speech given to American students doing missionary work in Mexico (in 1968), Illich rakes American volunteers over the coals, and poses the question, “Why are you here?”:

I'm equally impressed by the hypocrisy of most of you...You have decided to spend this next summer in Mexico...you close your eyes because you want to go ahead and could not do so if you looked at some facts. Had I known that I would see children living on the streets, working for a living at seven and eight years old, I wouldn't have come. Had I known that extreme poverty exists in every corner of this country, I wouldn't have come. Had I know the struggles that people on the streets face on a daily basis, I definitely wouldn't have come. Why am I here?

The existence of organizations like yours is offensive to Mexico. Why am I here? The people in my community accept me, but does my presence offend them? Do they think that their community needs a sustainable project? Are they happy with the way things are? Am I offending them by having good intentions?

Good intentions have not much to do with what we are discussing here. To hell with good intentions. This is a theological statement. You will not help anybody by your good intentions. There is an Irish saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

By definition, you cannot help being ultimately vacationing salesmen for the middle-class “American Way of Life” since that is really the only life you know. You, like the values you carry, are the products of an American society of achievers and consumers, with its two-party system, its universal schooling and it's family-car affluence. You are ultimately--consciously or unconsciously--“salesman” for a delusive ballet in the ideas of democracy, equal opportunity, and free enterprise among people who haven't the possibly of profiting from these. My culture, my middle class life. Are the people in my community jealous of me, when I'm really the one jealous of them? Do they realize that their way of life is difficult for me to adjust to, yet phenomenally simplistic? Am I creating chaos in a community simply by being there?

All you will do in a Mexican village is create disorder. I suppose I am.

There is no way for you to really meet with the underprivileged, since there is no common ground whatsoever for you to meet on. Do I ask about their lives? Should I ask about their lives? When I don't know how things function in their community and can't understand the schooling system or am surprised by the way things are done, am I creating a cultural rift? What do I have in common with these people? How can I possibly relate?

Even the Peace Corps spends around $10,000 on each member to help him adapt to his new environment and guard him against culture shock. How odd that nobody ever thought about spending money to educate poor Mexicans in order to prevent them from the culture shock of meeting you. Indeed, how odd.

Soon you would be made aware of your irrelevance among the poor, of your status as middle-class college students on a summer assignment. Sooner than I imagined, in fact. I never thought of it as a privilege to own a pair of shoes. I didn't realize that owning more than one pair of “play” shoes automatically made me middle class. I never imagined that I would feel so insignificant in a single place.

It is incredibly unfair for you to impose yourselves on a village where you are so linguistically deaf and dumb that you don't even understand what you are doing, or what people think of you.

I am here to entreat you to freely, consciously and humbly give up the legal right you have to impose your benevolence on Mexico. I am here to challenge you to recognize your inability, your powerlessness and your incapacity to do the “good” which you intended to do.

I am here to entreat you to use your money, your status and your education to travel in Latin America. Come to look, come to climb our mountains, to enjoy our flowers. Come to study. But do not come to help.

Why am I here?

Illich's speech is rough. He automatically assumes several things, and ironically, he's not Mexican. He's Croatian--so those mountains and flowers aren't really his. When I read this initially, I was furious. I'm not doing mission work, why should this apply to me? Who is he to tell me what I'm doing in this country?

I cannot possibly understand this culture, the people, their lives or their language in a way that will promote sustainable development. I cannot understand their battles, their problems, and their struggles. I fear that a project will offend them, hurt them, or upset them. So when I think about it, there's a lot of truth in his words.

Why am I here? I came here with good intentions. But is that enough?

I've always wanted a little sister. But I never got one. (You can take that up with my parents). I used to play with my friends little sisters because I didn't have one.

But now, I have two! My hermanitas are absolutely precious. Julissa is 5 and Perla is 7. I moved into my new family Tuesday night, and so far, so good. They are so great. And my sisters! I am absolutely in love. I played with them all night Tuesday night.

We dropped them off at school on Wednesday morning, and my mom, July took me to school so I could figure my way out. I feel like I'm probably going to be spending a lot more money on transportation at this house because it's a lot harder to walk to school. There's a highway near the school that I have to cross, and while people do it all the time, I feel safer taking a concho.

I came home yesterday and ate lunch, and took a nap. And it was a much, much needed nap. When I woke up, I had two little girls sitting outside of my room waiting for me to wake up. It was cute. I played with them all afternoon and night and then did my homework and went to bed.

I talked to Elaine, my program director, and the first thing she said to me was “Wow, you seem so happy”. And I am. I really, really am.

I'm in Heaven

I just wanted to give a quick update...

I love my *new* family. They are absolutely awesome and I'm really happy!

Stay tuned for more.

"Do you have hot water?" and Other Things About Life in the Dominican Republic

I always get asked so many questions about life in general in the Dominican Republic. The three most common are:

• Do you have hot water?
• What do you eat?
• What are the people in your program like?

I've decided to start a little mini-series about life in the DR, with questions from y'all. (But mostly because my life here is starting to get routine and boring and I don't really have much more to say). Please leave a comment if you have any questions about anything, however insignificant or important or random it may be. (Otherwise, you're going to be reading about me sitting in class for the whole morning and really, who wants to do that?)

Back to the hot water. Yes, we have the capability for it. No, I do not use it.

Having hot water is a complicated process. It involves turning on a switch that turns the propane on which heats the water. It takes about 15 minutes to heat. At first, I thought hot water was a good idea. When you have to wake up at 6:15 every morning to shower (if you shower that day, ahem), those extra 15 minutes are crucial.

It kind of freaked me out at first, but they don't use hot water for anything else, either. Clothes are washed in cold water, and all whites are bleached. The dishes are washed with cold water, and that still kind of scares me. I think they use bleach for the dishes, too, but I'm not sure about that. I haven't creeped in the kitchen enough.

But really, when you sleep in 80 degree weather, you don't want to take a hot shower in the morning. And when I come home from my organization dripping with sweat, I don't really want to stand under hot water. Cold water, however, makes the cut. Sometimes in the morning I step out of the shower absolutely freezing, complete with goosebumps.

I've come to embrace the cold water, though. Because I know that when I'm freezing in the morning, it will be the absolute only time that day that I'll be cold.

Optimism, my friends. It's good stuff.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Occasionally I forget how much I am loved.

On Friday afternoon, I made a phone call that I didn't think I would make while I was here. "Mom, I'm thinking about coming home". It wasn't a decision made on a whim, either. I wrote about it here and have also talked to the people in my program and my program director about it a few times. Friday was the breaking point, though.

Friday morning we went to a museum as a group and had our one month group meeting afterwards. The subject of host families came up and everyone was talking about how great of a time they were having. I didn't say a word because I didn't want to give false impressions, but I didn't want to complain either. My quietness didn't go under the radar like I had hoped, though.

Let me tell you a little bit about my family first. I love them a lot, I really do. My mom clearly cares about me and my sister thinks I'm fun. I enjoy being around them and talking with them. The only problem: They are never here. And in a country where I already feel out of whack and don't really know what's going on, having a family here to talk to and be a part of would be great.

I didn't really realize how much this was affecting me until it was brought up. And then, I realized that I'm home by myself at least 5 hours every. single. night. My sister takes night classes so she's obviously not here and my mom is either with her mom or sister-in-law or somewhere else. It's really hard to feel included when you're by yourself.

Elaine, my program director, realized that things aren't okay for me. So, we did what anyone would do: we called up Amy Lancaster at Wofford College. Amy Lancaster was my spanish teacher first semester of my freshman year, knows my brother from high school, and basically runs the study abroad program at Wofford; she's like family. After considering my options with her, Elaine and I talked again.

And nobody be too disappointed, but, I'm not coming home.

I am, however, changing families. As soon as Elaine finds somewhere to put me, (hopefully Monday or Tuesday), I'm moving out. And my family doesn't know this yet, but they do know that I wanted to go home. Things are really really awkward right now, but it's only for a few more days.

I also spent awhile talking to Elaine about my organization. I feel kind of out of the loop because I go to my community 3 or 4 days a week, but I don't really know what I'm doing. I've had friends and family ask me about what I'm doing and the only concrete thing I can come up with is that I'm hanging out with seven year olds and meeting people in the community. I guess I'm trying to integrate (as much as my blue eye, blonde hair self can) would be a better explanation. I'm having a meeting with Elaine and the lady from my community and the organization director on Tuesday to sort things out. Everyone who has already had this meeting with their organization in the past week feels so much better about everything, so I'm hoping I will too.

But back to forgetting how much I'm loved.

I'm not a quitter--I never have been. I have a drive that I'm not really sure where it comes from, but it's keeping me going.

When we got back to school after the museum and one month meeting, everyone in our group knew that I wasn't okay. I figured it would be best to be frank with them, so I told them that I was thinking about going home. They freaked out. Chris asked me who he would walk to school with. Ashley begged me not to go. Stephanie just stared at me like I was out of my mind.

And in those moments, I realized that we're not fake friends anymore. We've grown to be real friends. In each one of them, I'm finding pieces of my friends from home. For example, Dan and I love to translate things literally so that they end up sounding ridiculous. This reminds me so much of Jenna (my roommate), and while Dan is not Jenna by any means, it makes missing her a little bit easier.

I also talked to my Nana and Papa last night for the first time since I've been here (which was really hard, because I could sit all day and talk to them but we only had 10 short minutes). They told me that there are so many people asking about me and reading my blog. My mom has told me the same thing. I didn't realize that the whole world cared!

So, I'm staying here. But I know that there are a whole lot of people fighting for me here and there are even more people fighting for me at home. And that makes everything just a little bit easier. :)

The Concho Ride That Forever Changed My Life

I'm not a huge fan of conchos. I can't figure the routes out and I hate being squeezed into the back seat. I prefer to walk in the city, if at all possible. I've been in conchos that supposedly are on the same route that go different ways and end up at the same place. I've gotten lost two times now and there was a day when the concho driver forgot about me.

To get to and from my community, walking is not an option. It's about a 25 minute concho ride. On my way home from my community today, I saw a concho driver waiting to have a full car to head back to Santiago. I was the last one to get in the front seat. I tried to close the door and it wouldn't close. The driver said "No, like this", and motioned for me to hold the door shut by putting my arm out the window and holding it at the top.

He started the car and we left. The first thing that I noticed was the gas gauge. It was on empty. And the fuel light was on. And we had 25 minutes to go.

At 15 minutes into the ride, I looked at the speedometer, and we were going 65 mph on a road that was probably meant to be 35 mph (Not that there are speed limits posted or anything). I'm still holding the door on.

At 20 minutes into the ride, the driver turned right when we were supposed to be going straight. I got really concerned that I was going to end up lost again, but then he U-turned to turn right again onto the original road. He didn't want to wait for the light.

I couldn't get my money out to pay the driver during the trip because I was too busy holding the door on. When I tried to give it to him when we arrived, he said he didn't want it because I held the door on and that was good enough for him.

We arrived, in one piece, in Santiago after one of the scariest concho rides of my life. I spent have the time praying that we wouldn't run out of gas before we got back to Santiago and the other half praying that the door wouldn't fall off. It was a free trip, but it took a few minutes for my nerves to recover afterwards.

Machistas and Mosquitoes

This past weekend we traveled to the community of Rio Grande outside of Alta Mira for a world weekend. (Alta Mira is close to the North Coast, if you want to get everything in the right place on your mental map). We spent the weekend in the campo building latrines for the families of the community that couldn't afford to do it themselves.

The campo is an interesting place. There's a huge chauvinistic (I'm not exactly sure if this is the right word or not...the Spanish word is machista so I think machismo would be better) attitude in the community. Women generally spend all day in the kitchen and it's rare for a woman to leave her house, unless she's going to the store or church.

So when six girls showed up declaring they were going to build latrines, things got a little out of hand. I can't count the number of times someone took a saw, hammer, or shovel out of my hands. I was extremely frustrated--I (unlike some of the other girls) know how to use a saw, I can hammer a nail, and I'm pretty sure I can dig a hole. My Daddy taught me well. (And I used to think that I could grow up to be Amy Wynn Pastor, the carpenter from TLC's Trading Spaces. Don't judge.)

However, I was never taught how to do this:

(That's a machete. And he's using it to cut wood. Impressive.)

Building the latrines was hard work and um, they don't have powertools.

I sawed:

I supervised:

I hammered:

(Please note my tongue sticking out. I am my father's daughter.)

I sulked when my hammer was taken from me:

I helped build the base for the latrine:

And voila! The finished product:

After all day working, we were extremely tired and incredibly hot and sweaty. We walked to the river that's near the town (it is called Rio Grande [Big River] after all):

(This is my um, guys, it's really really cold face):

We spent the weekend with families from the communities. Each house had two students and it was really fun getting to know the other teenagers in the community and to see the dynamic between our different cultures.

When we got to Rio Grande on the first day, the people in the community told us to beware of the flesh eating bugs. I thought they were kidding at first. They called them Mayan bugs (but to me they looked like mosquitoes). Maybe Mayans liked to drink people's blood? I have no idea. Anyway, when these bugs bit me, I would get what looked like a mosquito bite, but with a bruise around it.

I hesitate to say this on the internet for the whole world to hear (but I mean, I did share the same pair of jeans for 14 days straight thing), but I came home with 152 mayan/mosquito bites. (Yeah, we counted).

The hospitality and the happiness of the people in the community made every single bug bite worth it, though. It amazed me how they reached out to us while we were reaching out for them. They literally opened their homes and their lives to us and it was extremely rewarding.

More Pictures

These are in a backwards/random order from the time they were taken, but I didn't really have the patience to go through and fix it. Take what you can get, no? :)

The last full day we were in Samana (Sunday) we went to Playa Rincon, which boasts one of the top beaches in the world. It was described to us as nearly deserted--and after the hour and a half long taxi ride on one lane dirt roads (I hesitate to call them roads--footpaths would probably be the better description), I can see why. The only other groups of people there were campers and the people of the village that run little fish restaurants. Saturday morning we went whale watching and in the afternoon we went to Playa Las Galeras. Las Galeras was about 45 minutes outside of Samana. I rode there in the back of a truck. It was awesome.