A Caribbean Winter

I uploaded a few more photos of our place and what we've been doing these days.

Winter has come to my part of the Caribbean. Peace Corps didn’t tell me (who knew then that I’d live in the mountains?) to bring a coat. I have a couple of sweaters that I put on all at one time, but it’s still kind of chilly. I don’t know what the temperature is, but my hands get numb when I’m sitting around reading or writing. The last two days it’s been raining so our only recourse has been to crawl under the covers. Earlier in the week, as you can see from the pictures, the weather was just gorgeous for hiking. The sun was slightly warm but the air stayed nippy. If I procrastinate bathing until after the sun goes down, as I usually do, it brings back memories of Pennsylvania winter-baths as a kid in our farmhouse’s unheated bathroom. Only there you had hot running water and you could run to the stove afterward.

Granted it’s not cold enough to see my breath, but I have one bucket of warm water to dump over myself while a breeze wafts through the latrine threatening to blow out the candle. It’s a chilly and uninviting bath. Sometimes I just skip the bath all together. It’s easier that way.

A week ago we took four kids from our communities to a national Brigada Verde conference. I think the conference was a big hit for all the jovenes (youth) that attended. Recall that Brigade Verde is a Dominican youth club focused on environmental issues. It felt strange towing four teenagers five hours across the country for a weekend conference. But I feel strange doing a lot of things here, meaning that if there’s one thing that Peace Corps (and living in a foreign culture does well, it’s stretching your comfort level. In college I was pretty uncomfortable just talking in front of a group, let alone talking in front of a group in a foreign language. Here that seems laughable. Last month when we participated in the tree planting project the local news station interviewed us about what we are doing in the area. I don’t have TV so I don’t know if it actually made the final cut for the air or not. But it was just another day in Peace Corps. Some days later Anna and I were laughing about the fact that if that had happened in the States we would probably have been like, “Woot, woot! We’re on TV!” But here so many new and strange (at least strange to us) things seem to happen almost every day that you just don’t really have time to process them all. Strange becomes normal. Which means that returning to life in the Stated in two years will seem rather mundane. Unless of course I’ll be used to this strangeness which will make American habits seem strange and so I’ll be in for another stimulating ride.

Some fun experiences:
Anna is sitting on a bus chatting with the cobrador (the fare-man) about where to get off and a man sitting directly behind her says to the cobrador, “Oh, so you speak English?” The cobrador says that no isn’t it obvious that they are speaking in Spanish and the passenger just looks confused, even though he could clearly overhear the entire conversation. Various volunteers have remarked on a tendency in some Dominicans to find it so incredulous that an Americano/a should be speaking Spanish that they literally don’t understand what you’re saying because they are so sure that what’s coming out of your mouth is English (or some other foreign language).

I know two Haitian Creole words. Bonswa is good afternoon and Bonjou is good morning. One day several weeks ago I am walking along the road and here comes a neighbor of mine on his motor bike with a Haitian worker on the back. He stops his bike and yells Leo! Leo! These guys speak the same language as you! I tried to explain that we actually don’t, but he was not to be discouraged and kept repeating, “Talk to him! Talk to him!” So I did. I said, “Bonswa," and shook the Haitian coffee picker’s hand. Of course the Haitian loved this because so few Dominicans (if any) bother to learn Creole. His face lit up in a big smile and he vigorously returned the handshake. My neighbor was ecstatic. He jumped up and down and shouted, “See, I told you!” Then he excitedly points to a group of Haitian workers coming down the road and tells me to talk to them as well. I shook hands all around with a hearty Bonswa for all as my Dominican neighbor cheered loudly. I never did correct him. Last week when I showed up at the school for an English class the professor said, “Ai Leo! I hear you’re speaking some Haitian Creole.” What could I do but shrug and smile?