The Brother Bean

Another historical marker arrived in my Caribbean theater in the form of an eager, hairy, tanning machine: my first visitante, my little brother. A vacation of epic proportions (“epic”), just rough enough around the edges to keep us grounded in the fact that this is indeed Peace Corps. The pristine post-card beach was precipitated by a grueling 1.75 hour slog in the sun sans bola (free ride), but a saintly and mysterious neighbor did pass by on a motorcycle and gave us 2 cold Cokes. Bean climbed the coco trees. Ask him if it was as painful as it looks. The whirring horde of my housemate mosquitoes was kept at bay by the arsenal of repellent products he smuggled through customs.

The crux of our brief time together was spent in an all-inclusive casino hotel. I mean, we were surviving Hurricane Dean by the barest margin, of course. Bean and another pcv’s visiting bro were the only members of our group to actually see any hurricaney action since they were free to leave the hotel and scout out the waves. Dean passed the capital dry, however and we were left unscathed and without wild war stories.

Just to illustrate the brilliance of my brother and family—Charlie brought me 4 books, including the coveted ultimo of Harry Potter and a plastic schnapps bottle filled with Jameson’s whiskey. What a wise and lovely chap. In case anyone is still wondering Dominican coffee + jameson’s + sugar + powdered milk + butter ≠ deliciousness. Many laughs indeed. As a parting thank you for planning this bangarang adventure, he bought me a mammoth machete. And put the mouse and lizard we caught in the sticky traps under the table out of their misery. Nice to have a varón around for that one.

My friends threw a rocking merengue despedida our last night in town and sent him off in style—with some hip new dance steps, a belly full of fritos and johnny cake (pronounced yanni-cake-uh) and the hearts of all muchachas in range. What a tiguere. I think he managed to learn a little Spanish from the 10-day Try to Get Betsy To Translate program I put him in upon arrival. If anyone else is interested, the results are fair to middling in the language department, but off the charts in fun. For me anyway. Thanks, Beanie. You’re a kick and a half.

You can see Bean peeking out from the privacy of my luxurious bath house. Cold showers are better than they sound.

This last one is for you, Mom. Here’s me in the glory that was our room the first and last night, sporting my bottle of anti skin fungal magic: Selsun Blue.

The Salto

My pueblo is situated in a shallow valley in the Cordillera Oriental, the most eastern chain of mountains in the province of El Seibo. The surrounding hills are riddled with caves and laced with winding and drunken pathways that lead to hidden pastures, waterholes and fruit groves. One of these paths threads north, shadowing the river until it ends at the salto, the big waterfall. Usually the caminos are rather well-kept simply because of traffic, but apparently the scenic route to the salto has been unpopular as of late. We battled vines, bushes, roots, rocks, ants, centipedes, starving mosquitoes, thorns, and most painful of all pringamosa, the stinging, rash-inducing bush that seemed to be around every corner.

It was a wild, lush and tropical scene when we finally made it to the river, like a scene out of Indiana Jones. The deep pools ringed by the moss-darkened boulders, vines draping through the dappling sunlight, soft clouds of mosquitoes humming above the water’s surface, flittering butterflies along the banks. We never did make it to the salto, too slippery, overgrown and impassable. But we discovered several gorgeous swimming holes and rock slides and the cold water soothed our many scrapes, bites and scratches. Beautiful view, most of which are unrecorded because the terrain was too peligroso even for a camera.

La Vecina Nueva

I have reached another milestone in my time here—I finally moved into my own house. Sola, something rare in this culture. Most Dominican families have at least 3 generations and a handful of extended relatives living under the same roof; I have a sizeable house to myself. Kind, concerned neighbors ask me everyday if I’m doing all right, if I’m lonely, sad or scared. I tell them I love it, and they still bring me avocados and other fruits to make me feel better.
The house is a typical wooden house, green and pink with a cement floor. It has the zinc roof that makes the rainstorms sound like a drum cascade, and the drafty walls that let in the cool night air. (And the cockroaches…de vez en cuando) It is quite spacious, and thanks to my new landlady I have some real furniture. The yard is a mini orchard conglomerate, with cherry, avocado, plantain, banana and lemon trees. I don’t know if any of them actually produce any fruit, but the possibilities are wonderful.
The house out back is actually the kitchen, where I would normally cook over a fire—fogón—but since I have the space and a little electric range, I set up camp in the main house. Note the avocados waiting on the table. You can also see my bathhouse. Open air, open to the elements. One afternoon I was bathing and the rain started. The first drops felt like minty sprinkles, energizing flavor crystals for the skin. It’s also incredible bathing at night under the brilliant theater of stars.
One of the best parts is the galleria, the front porch. In the late afternoon I have shade and a nice breeze and can take part in one of the essential components of Dominican lifestyle: sitting. And chatting. Thanks again to my dueña, I have 2 chairs to accommodate a my visitors.
As much as I love my house, it does come with its hazards. Yesterday evening the electrical wire that stretches over my yard to the house behind me exploded and fell, striking and killing an unlucky dog that just happened to be passing by. Because the wire was tangled around the dog and still con coriente, we had to wait for the lights to go out this afternoon before the neighbor boy could get rid of the body. So the path to the latrine was a little grisly during the hot afternoon hours.
In other news, we are wrapping up the painting phase of the world map mural. And the pizza wave continues. This last pie stuck to the pan, but it was still a tasty hit. Well-worth the 20 minutes of chipping at the cement, I mean crust.