March, 4, 2003

Dave writes: I'm sure those of you in New Orleans are kind of busy right now catching beads and baring your breasts and such, but down here it's just another work day. Attached below is a special guest dispatch for the website from my buddy Jon "Hooker" Lee about a recent PCV gathering. I think it's pretty accurate, but to be fair I think I should mention that while we were in El Llano, at least two of us (myself and Rick) did a little bit of work and taught a class. Even if it was a pretty short one.

Guest dispatch by PCV Jon Lee

Reality Bites: Volunteers just want to have fun

Let¹s face the facts, or at least my opinions. Peace Corps volunteers are real people. When we aren¹t saving small woodland creatures or rescuing villagers from danger, we have to let our hair down. In case of myself, this action is only proverbial due to the fact that I am as bald as a baby in July.

Fine. So now you know. Sometimes volunteers aren¹t the stoic vision of a sweat soaked hero for the ages. Sometimes like last week when, to celebrate the anniversary of our group¹s first year and my birthday, we got together for a little R and R, Peace Corps DR style. What is R and R Peace Corps DR style? Take a dash of ego, something other than rice and beans, a penchant for disturbingly dorky conversations and some beer and rum. This is what we call fun. This is what we call Making a Difference.

Dave, Rick, Tico, Kevin, Casey, Maria and myself are in El Llano, Maria¹s site in the southern province of Elias Piña located close to the border with Haiti. Casey¹s out roaming the streets for suckers. He quit smoking years ago, but the sucker habit just won¹t quit. Rick¹s next door being fed by his old host family, that if memory serves me right, tried to marry him off to their 13 year-old daughter. And Kevin is at his host mother¹s house buying bananas and being told how fat he is. The rest of us are taking in the silence.

The Dominican Republic, as you will remember from His Highness Hotstream, is the third loudest country in the world. And El Llano is the third quietest town on the island. Needless to say, coming to El Llano is like letting out a breath after touching the deep end in the community swimming pool. We¹re all sprawled out, in different states of sensorial bliss.

A concrete floor on our asses. Gallos crowing. Small children in dirt stained Charlotte Hornets and Columbia Municipal Shooting Range t-shirts pleading from the chain link fence in the back yard for us to play Frisbee. And yet, we¹re either sleeping like babies or sucking our thumbs. Strange people, us volunteers.

This is a sight to see. We¹re all college educated professionals sitting around on a Tuesday afternoon having serious conversations about bodily functions and how to get our communities to realize the difference between a plastic chocolate wrapper and a leaf. This is like college, only the US government doesn¹t expect any money back this time.

Casey, Rick and Kevin amble back in, and Dave tells Casey for the fiftieth time not to call him David. That boy's going to get beaten, badly. Tico finally acquiesces to the muchachos on the chain link fence and picks up his Frisby so we can teach the kids that even Americans with well-tuned government issue fine motor skills can be tromped by shoeless 9 year-olds with moderate to severe malnutrition.

Once the game is over and the sun down, time is kicking into second gear. Maria motivates the troops to start dinner: falafel, a semblance of pita bread, fresh salsa, hummus and tahini sauce. It¹s time for some beer, some rum and more talking.

Volunteers are lonely beasts. Other than freaks like Hotstream, the majority of us are the only American in our town. We spend most days talking about yucca, rice and baseball. Education is minimal, so Spanish is boiled down to a series of roughly 9 grunts and squeaks that can be repeated and interchanged for the majority of social interactions. This is why, when volunteers convene, they yap, yap, yap and yap.

Dinner has been served and Hotstream already looks wild eyed from rum. Kevin¹s been rattling off some show tunes and Casey has begun reciting poetry by Allen Ginsberg. If only Tico had his guitar, we could have a love-in. Maria would be our fairy princess. It¹s not even midnight yet. We still have to eat cake.

Music is always an important part of volunteer get togethers. Unfortunately, Maria has sent most of her music collection home to Alaska. She is leaving country soon. So, our only choice is what appears to be a collection of 9 or 10 CDs that all feature one song about failed love and lust sung by every girl singer from Tori Amos to Dar Williams. But thanks to Hotstream, we can at least play Exile on Mainstreet and Daydream Nation on the tape player.

That is until someone turns off Daydream Nation just as it starts to climax. This is bad. This is very bad. The culprit is Casey, a good friend with bad taste in music and a little too much of a tendency towards intellectual conversation. Too much you say? I¹ll put it this way. Once the tape is cut and Tori Amos starts whining, Casey, Dave and I begin a four hour conversation that stretches from Daydream Nation¹s historical, cultural and esthetic importance all the way to the possibility or impossibility of a divine being. Damn volunteers. We should really get a life.

The cake is served. A big old chocolate Bundt cake with chocolate icing, a paper boat and a ceramic cow. The conversation quickly ceases. A birthday cake has never tasted so good. Perhaps it¹s the respite from the God talk, or just a pure hankering for chocolate. But once the cake is devoured the party declines into an inebriated and sleep deprived movement towards bed. Seven people, two beds. Ample floor space. Some sore backs. And, at least in the case of one person, a hangover for tomorrow.

This is Peace Corps. Nothing like anything any of us expected. But, it¹s not so bad. We¹re all healthy, except for that hung over kid. And we seem to be pretty happy, except that whole Daydream Nation incident. But hey, these are the best days of our livesŠor something. When can I do this again? Maybe I´ll go to Jamaica next.