1.22.2009

So Long (for now)

I regret to inform you, dear reader, that I have ended my service in the Peace Corps as of October 31st, 2008.My decision to resign from Peace Corps was weighed over the course of an arduous few months.

One Saturday in August I was playing baseball with the guys. We had played 5 of 6 innings. The score was Ojo de Agua 3- Las Barretas 2. Of course, I would come to the plate with two outs and a man on second. Not often do the crowds in El Potrero (where the field was) get to see a gringo from the big leagues in this situation. The air was as thick as ice. Now, when trying to integrate yourself into a community where you are the only one of your gringo kind within shooting distance, you better get a hit and win the game. Otherwise, you shall suffer the irreparable damage of a choke, that age, culture, race, sport old crumbling under pressure, which spreads from mouth to mouth like a determined wildfire, leaving barren the forged reputation. At the time of the first pitch, all I could think to myself was, "Gringo, hit it and run," a typical male reaction to a variety of situations.

I swung at the first pitch. Aiming for the fences always proves to be strike one. The second pitch was the high heat. Ball one. The third pitch was cheap meat. I hit it, though not as hard nor as far as my imagination thought capable. A pity of a ground ball to the shortstop. I ran as if running from two years of certain shame. Suddenly, first base was only a body length away.

A fraction of a second before reaching first base, I thought of this--wasn't there a Mythbusters episode about baseball. Among the common explosive and velocity driven experiments aimed at testosterone juicing, there was a segment on sliding. The conclusion was that diving into a base was a fraction of a second faster than actually running upright to the base. At this conclusion I heaved my body feet first towards first base; as the shortstop hurled his gringo beating baseball towards the first baseman. I landed on my right wrist with my feet touching the bag. Safe, rang out through the land. I made it, but with a definite throbbing emanating from my wrist.

We went on to win the game that afternoon with cheers and beers enjoyed all the way back to Ojo de agua. Though, I remained in pain for a good month before I decided to get it checked out. As it turned out, I had major problems with my wrist. The cartilage between my metacarpals was displaced due to the fall. A common, slow healing, and painful injury. The Doc put an elbow cast on me for an initial period of three weeks. This was unbearable. It was difficult, if not impossible to live and work without electricity, in the wet jungle with one static arm. I couldn't work with the agriculturists. All I could do was walk around and talk to people. And talking was all I did. I became frustrated when trying to teach because I could not show a person how, I could only direct them how. Most do not enjoy being directed and even fewer learn from it. After three weeks, I went back to the doc. I was still in pain. The doc put another cast on me. This one was just below my elbow. I was not excited about three more weeks in a cast with an indefinite period with a cast after that. So, I went to the medical office and decided to end my service. Difficult decision, but the right one. I couldn't do the work I wanted to do with the cast. Being frustrated and in pain not only affected me, it affected my community. I think I made the best choice.

Thanks for reading

Mark Field DiNatale

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