More Bang for Your Buck!

Happy Fall Y'all,

As of today, it's official -- I have a new blog! I hope you will continue to read, listen, question and encourage. Thank you for joining me in this journey thus far. I couldn't do it without you.

Now hop on over and take a PEEK!

XOXO,
KP

Invaded

In Cape Verde, personal space is nonexistent, unheard of -- it’s outright rude. I never thought I would say this, but they are on to something. Without untouchable territories, intimacy is nurtured, along with an immediate sense of belonging that transcends language, culture, even generational barriers. Yesterday, as I visited with my student’s family, I was immediately introduced to aunts, uncles, grandparents, sisters, brothers, cousins, neighbors, and even the family goat. I was given more food than I could eat, a chair to rest my feet, and an open invitation to txiga (visit; stay; eat). I was taken into their home, immediately mixed-up in their lives. My hands were held, my cheeks were kissed, my hair was brushed, and my lap was sat on. I was swept up in a new world before I had time to hesitate.

This intimacy is something you can’t hide from, or hide behind. It’s guided by intuition, rather than schedules, appointments and time. Relationships, people take precedence -- no multitasking, no buzzing electronics, no clock ticking the minutes away. Yes, it can be frustrating when you're waiting for two hours while the waitress chats with a customer; yes it can be uncomfortable, and scary at times when your neighbors sit and watch you pick the bones out of your fish; however, a relationship is established that prevails over differences. A relationship that reminds us we are all people -- individuals attempting to find our place, to be loved, to be nourished. It’s a feeling that warms your insides, forces a smile on your face, and makes you feel a part of something bigger -- something greater than yourself, your world, your personal space. And all of this is accomplished in a thirty-minute visit.

Happy Birthday to You...

To my sister, best friend and the person I look up to most --

Happy Birthday, Tyler:

XOXO,
Krista

We're not in Kansas anymore

As I stood at the front of the class attempting to remember the Kriolu word for duck and filter my way through the chaos, I hear "quack, quack, quack" coming from the front row. For the remainder of the period, the room sounded like a petting zoo -- filled with meowing, ribbiting, and barking. And I enjoyed every minute of it.

There's something raw, genuine and pure about chaos. Everything is turbulent here -- not rushed, frenzied disorder, rather a general lack of direction and no one to lead. For instance, during the second week of university classes, it is still unsure who will teach certain subjects, where certain classes will be held, or who will even show up to these classes.

I've come to appreciate this infancy, even when it blows up in my face. As I watched fifty kids attempt to tell me the Kriolu word for ant, I smiled -- attempting to absorb the moment in its entirety. The room was bursting with excitement, an energy that is lost with order and formality. The students were ecstatic that they could teach me something new, that they had something to share with me. Everyone wanted a voice, everyone had something to say.

However, sometimes my optimistic outlook gets the best of me. After class, a 12-year-old going on thirty came up to me and said, "You know, you can just slap them when they won't be quiet." I laughed and said, "Really? In America that is unacceptable." With her hand on her hip and without skipping a beat she said, "Miss Krista, you're not in America anymore. This is Cape Verde." Truer words have never been spoken. I guess it is time to pull in the reins.

The Receiving End

I always thought life was about giving -- about contribution, about an unselfish commitment to others. If you asked me six months ago, I would have said that I believed in giving, wholeheartedly. Now, I'm not so sure that giving is the ultimate puzzle piece. My experience here, my integration into a new culture, is overwhelmingly defined by reception. My family, my neighbors, even strangers constantly want to feed me, teach me, and open up their world to me.

I was reminded of this fact just yesterday. Like a good Peace Corps volunteer, I volunteered to teach 5th and 6th graders at a nearby elementary school, twice a week. I began my first day on the job with a sense of authority - this was about me positively representing a faraway land -- teaching a foreign language, culture and people. Yet, I was thrown for a loop. It isn't about how many n's are in banana or about the difference between good and well. It is about listening and adapting, through the act of receiving. I am certain that nothing can be accomplished, or established, without an initial feeling of humble reception.

As soon as I walk through the gate each day, students bombard me with good afternoons, while taking my bag to lighten my load and repeating every English phrase they've ever heard. The secretary greets me with a kiss and insists that I sit with her, resting before the sea of students appear. Before I begin teaching my last class of the day, the lunch lady is insistent that my belly is full. It does not matter that I've already eaten lunch or that it's so hot outside the last thing I want to put in my mouth is a steaming bowl of soup.

When I turned around and saw my new students following me home, I knew it was not because they loved the lesson. I did not understand everything they attempted to tell me and I did not keep the class engaged for the entire hour. I did, however, listen. I took.

Over and over again, I am confronted with the boldness and capacity of reception. People receiving purpose, responsibility and ownership through the act of giving -- preparing a meal, providing a bed, teaching a local dance. I must be able to receive experiences, receive instruction, receive nourishment before I can begin to formulate any form of giving. I must first hear, listen and take without interruption. Receiving conveys investment, and in the end, maybe a little giving of my own.

Only in Cape Verde...

[Just a few of my favorite Cape Verdean quirks]

1. Can you buy one hamburger bun

2. Can you wear jellies and look cool

3. The customer is never right

4. Can you arrive two hours late and be on time

5. Can you carry an umbrella when it’s sunny

6. Can you be labeled “ingratu” if you don’t visit, and eat, with everyone

7. Toilet paper is more important than your wallet, when traveling here to there

8. Can you page someone to call you because you don’t want to waste your cell phone minutes (txoma-m)

9. Can you enter a checkout line that is dedicated to the purchase of rice, and only rice

10. Can you squeeze 23 people into a van (squatting room only) and still recruit more passengers

11. Can you buy a concert ticket for an artist who has never heard of Cape Verde and who has no plans to perform in Cape Verde

12. Rain is an excuse not to go to work

13. Can you compete to see who can hang up the phone first

14. Can you have a five-minute conversation using various synonyms of “I’m good”

15. Can you sweat while taking a cold shower

16. Can you fry dinner for breakfast and call it by a different name

17. Can you eat eggs, yogurt and milk that have never seen the inside of a fridge

18. Can you play Cydni Lauper’s Time After Time on repeat and think people are enjoying it

19. Can you find an item in the grocery store one day and never see it again

20. Can you learn how to effectively sit on a three-legged chair

21. Can you wear the same shirt all week because you're a constant ball of sweat, whether you wear clean or dirty clothes; and every time you think about hand-washing and ironing all those articles of clothing, you calculate the growing height of that laundry pile

Hark the Sound

Imagine you are applying to a Cape Verdean university --

You begin the process with an entrance exam. If you fail the exam, you are still admitted to the university. This does not mean you are ready or prepared for the workload; it merely means that the university is desperate for students and money. You hear through the grapevine that classes are starting around October 4. You arrive at school and discover that professors are still on vacation. You travel back and forth to the university, even if you live on the other side of the island, because it is imperative to know when classes are actually beginning. You find out, two days ahead of time, that class schedules are posted in the university lobby. No information is posted online and informational emails are nonexistent. When you arrive to see your schedule, you discover that although classes were supposed to start October 18, they are actually beginning tomorrow. You were also told that you had classes in the morning and now all your classes are in the afternoon. You must ask your boss to revise your work schedule, again. After all, if you attend the university you are not supposed to have an outside job -- only full-time students are admitted. You talk to your professors and they are still unsure of what they will be teaching, even though classes begin tomorrow. No one knows exactly where your classes will take place because construction is still in progress on many of the classrooms and faculty offices. And, some classes that you registered for have no professor. You show up on the first day of class, hoping someone knows something…

Although this is a hypothetical situation, many prospective students confront these challenges daily. When I think back to my freshman year of college, I am greeted with images of orientation, friendly faces to help along the way, as well as numerous papers and informational emails– a stark contrast to the Cape Verdean university experience.

XOXO

Who Will Dance On The Floor In The Round

When I see America from a Cape Verde perspective I am overwhelmed with images of Eminem, Jay-Z and Ralph Lauren. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, right? Although I know a different America, we give off a stench comprised of fashion, money and physical beauty. Every day, my homestay brothers jammed out to Kayne West and Lady Gaga. Every day, people ask me if I knew Michael Jackson. Every day, people scour the market for Ralph Lauren and Lacoste knockoffs. Although I love nothing more than blaring Billie Jean and a dance party, this is not the America that will progress and sustain Cape Verde. Designer clothes and Hollywood will not bring food and jobs to the islands. I see people striving for this superficial happiness and I feel misconstrued, as a country and as an individual. I want to replace those role models with authors, presidents and civil leaders. I want Cape Verde to meet my teachers, friends and family. I want Cape Verde to read my favorite books and meet my favorite characters. I want my homestay nephew to read, debate and explore. I want so much more for this island nation.
XOXO

Upper East Side

I didn’t learn the secret of cardinal directions until sixth grade. Sometimes teachers said I lived in the east and sometimes teachers said I lived in the west, thus I remained a puzzled child. Finally, my sixth grade social studies teacher (thank you, Mr. P!) straightened out my confusion. He explained that west and east must always spell “we.” He also clarified that we lived in the eastern part of the US, but the western part of North Carolina. My sense of direction isn’t much better today, even at the ripe age of 23.

Living in Cape Verde has only contributed to this weakness of mine. After visiting the phone company to inquire about installation, I discovered that my official address is “the blue apartment building near Hotel Roterdao” – no numbers, no street names, no perpendicular systems of organization. All directions begin with “near” and end with some type of landmark. I’m still not sure what happens if you’ve never heard of Hotel Roterdao or what course of action one should take upon arrival at the blue apartment building – we are not the only residents after all.

After scrubbing, mopping and adding a needed feminine touch, I can proudly call the blue apartment building home. This new independence is a strange feeling – no one insisting I eat at least five times a day, no one preparing my snack for school, no one heating up my bath water, no one translating my broken Kriolu. In a day’s time, I went from child to adult, from village to city, from training to reality.

Adaptation

Day 1 -- I sat at the breakfast table - tired eyes, a pounding headache, and sweat dripping down my back - with a rooster staring back at me and chicks scurrying over my feet. I closed my eyes and the only thought I could muster was “you can do this, you can do this, you can do this.”

Day 63 -- I can survive heat that makes me feel like I have a fever; I can wash my hair and body with a few cups of water; I can open a coconut without spilling its juice; I can remove t-shirt stains with my bare hands; I can boulder across the island; I can pick out the minuscule bones of a whole fish; and I can integrate myself into an entirely new culture, language and people. Although I thought I would never get used to eating rice three times a day, I am realizing that this is not the most difficult part of my service. You can get accustomed to just about anything. The hard part still remains -- now what? What will my 6-year old, Cape Verdean nephew do for work in twenty years? What if the rainy season doesn’t come next year? What if the soil remains unfertile and my village is unable to grow crops?

Saturday officially marks the beginning of my service as a PC volunteer. As I move out of my village, I am left with a growing feeling of frustration and guilt. I know my family is malnourished and I know that one day, growing corn and beans will not be enough. Yet, what now?

XOXO

It’s not just me and it’s not just you

This week, I observed the true efficiency and purpose of Peace Corps. I saw why I am proud to be a part of this mission, taking place around the world. Throughout my training period, the focus remains on the people of Cape Verde. For instance, everyone from the training staff, including language teachers and technical trainers, to our homestay families are Cape Verdeans. We not only benefit from learning by total immersion, we are also pumping money into the economy by providing employment for local people.
In addition, all volunteers who teach either middle or high school must successfully complete model school during training. Model school involves volunteers inviting young people from their respective community to participate in free language classes for a two-week period. Local children are learning English while volunteers are practicing and assessing their teaching methods. In essence, my training period is as much for the people of Cape Verde as it is for my benefit. A true partnership is in the works -- an exchange of giving, taking and collaborating. My language teacher patiently fixes my broken Kriolu. I teach him English phrases. He introduces me to his friends and neighbors. I am teaching him how to swim. That’s a powerful idea. What if our entire education system centered on serving others, yet simultaneously maximized our learning potential?
My language teacher, fluent in at least 8 languages, chooses to live in Cape Verde and help his people. When I asked him why he does not take his family to live in the US or other developed nation, he said, “I do not like to see my people suffer.” He chooses to live in a country, absent of clean water and basic necessities, as a sole result of his desire to help and improve his country. His words play over and over in my head. Maybe it’s because I’m not sure I would have his courage, determination and sense of responsibility. If there were better opportunities abroad for myself as well as my family, I think selfishness would triumph.
I am finding it difficult to fight against the American mentality of individuality. We unconsciously grow up associating happiness with financial success and independence. When we no longer need the assistance of our parents, we have reached adulthood. In contrast, my teacher unconsciously associates happiness with his people. The value of his dollar is in a chance to see his neighbor attend college or to see his community establish an effective waste system. It is about working to build a community, rather than working to build himself. I am certain, through people like him, we will forever change the face of our world.
XOXO

Who Says

I wasn’t sure how I felt about living in the capital city for the next two years; however, after my weekend stay in Praia, I’m more than ready to plant my small town roots in the city! Although city life comes at the cost of integrating into a village community, Praia offers an abundance of culture and a diverse array of people. Over the weekend, I shadowed two PC volunteers who teach at the university, my future workplace. We filled our days with long walks and bus rides, exploring every inch of the city. I took my first shower in six weeks, scoured every store for Snickers bars and M&M’s, attempted to make American cuisine with a few substitutions, and most importantly, learned the ins and outs of life as a PC volunteer. However, the true highlight of my weekend centered on a group of kids and lots of cuddling.
I made my first visit to an SOS center, established as a safe place for children to live and grow if their home lives are dangerous or inadequate. However, any individual can leave his or her children at the orphanage, no explanation needed. Thus, the center has become overcrowded and vastly understaffed, further contributing to the huge problem of child neglect in Cape Verde. For instance, it is not uncommon for financially and physically able parents to drop their children at a center one day and depart to work the next.
As soon as I walked in the door, kids swarmed me. Children were holding my hands, climbing on my back, sitting on my feet, pulling at my skirt -- they are desperately starved for attention, comfort and love. Ironically, we all have infinite amounts of hugs and kisses to give, yet there are children suffering physically, emotionally and mentally from an absence of tender loving care.
One brave soul, quite possibly my new hero, lives at the center and is responsible for all 40 children. This includes feeding 15 infants, giving 40 baths (that’s 80 feet to clean and 400 toes to wash), breaking up frequent disputes, as well as somehow managing to get them all in bed. No staff, no fundraising committee, and an ever-increasing amount of children.
As for bedtime, 15 boys share a room with 2 bunk beds -- that’s about 4 boys in each bed. In addition, many of the children suffer from mental and emotional disabilities, making it difficult for anyone to sleep at night. In the infants’ room, a 6 year old lies in a crib, not able to talk or walk as a result of big, fat neglect. Frequently, the infants lie all day in their cribs, never held or talked to, merely receiving bottles at mealtimes.
I continually remind myself that the SOS center is most likely better than their prior living situation; however, it is difficult to see. It gives you that heavy feeling in your stomach and a lump in your throat. I visited the center for all of forty-five minutes and a boy who never left my side, who merely makes noises and repeats his name, began to cry when it was time for me to go. He craves and needs attention so badly that less than an hour of individual playtime left him attached to a stranger.
I envision my secondary project emerging around the needs of these children. Imagine the developmental significance even a weekly bedtime story would make in the lives of these 40 kids! The potential to improve their quality of life is immense, especially during their developmental years, yet resources and manpower are currently nonexistent. In two years anything is possible, right? I think I left my heart in the hands of that sweet, young face.
XOXO

Officially Integrated

When your clothes, including underwear and bras, are hanging on the smack-dab front of your house to dry, you are officially integrated into your family’s home. When your homestay mom swats away the flies just so you can eat your lunch without swallowing a mosquito, you know it’s your home. When your mom serves you dinner in bed because you don’t feel good, you know it’s your home.
I, unintentionally, got up close and personal with my homestay family this week. Let me give you some necessary background information to begin. I apologize in advance for the descriptive, but necessary details. I’m the type of gal who likes to do her business without discussing it, if you know what I mean. However, PC has transformed my frame of mind. Among my fellow volunteers, we discuss daily our bowel movements, or lack thereof, including diarrhea and constipation. We cheer when a constipated individual finally goes to the bathroom and we celebrate when another volunteer has their first solid bowel movement. We even took a quiz on diarrhea -- that is how seriously your digestive track is taken when you work for the PC.
Anyways, I digress…I was constipated for approximately 2-3 weeks, as a result of the starchy diet, so my doctor gave me a prescription laxative on Sunday. After attempting to read the Portuguese directions [I am only learning Kriolu], I took my first dose. Approximately 2 hours later, I was running to the bathroom because it felt like my insides were falling out. And I stayed in the bathroom all night, tummy rumbling. Come to find out, I took an oversized dose, and I’m still suffering the consequences. Today, we were forced to hold class at my house as a result of my immediate bathroom needs. Be careful what you wish for…
Our PC leaders constantly talk about the value of humor. I experienced this firsthand while sitting in the bathroom suffering from bouts of explosive diarrhea while my family sat in the very next room eating dinner. I could either laugh or cry. I chose to laugh until I cried. When I finally came out of the bathroom only to hurry back a few minutes later, my mom simply asked, “How is your stomach? What do you want for dinner?” This is my home sweet home– the good, the bad, and the smelly.

With Love

As I eat dinner each night, two young boys sit on our stairs patiently waiting for leftovers. Often, they wear only a ragged, dirty shirt – no underwear, no pants, no shoes. The flies swarm their open wounds, which are never cleaned or bandaged. Each night they come for dinner, waiting for my mom to fill her used plate with our leftovers. They never ask for more, yet they always share the plate of food – one takes a bite and then the other takes the same, calculated bite. No matter how hungry they must be, they take care of each other, ensuring that each one has their fair share. When I see this occurrence each night, I am taken back to my childhood. Whether we were sharing a piece of cake or a candy bar, my sister and I would fight over who had the biggest piece -- never happy with our share, always wanting more. These brothers may only eat one, shared meal a day, yet their first priority is each other. That is an unconditional love like no other.
XOXO

Djunta mon

As soon as I arrived in my village, my family informed me about the 15 de Agostu festa. Every day after that, I was reminded about the upcoming festa by a neighbor, new friend, or family member. This weekend we festa’ed - a festa of all festas. I awoke last Monday, a week before the festa officially began, to my brothers painting the fence lining the road to the village and a new diskotecha being constructed for the sole purpose of the festa. Houses were repainted, buildings opened, streets were cleaned, and food was prepared. Every individual in the village had a part in this festa, even the children.

I came home to my 5-year-old nephew carrying the bloody fur of our “pet” goat. As he attempted to hug me, I repeated “laba mon, laba mon.” I don’t think I will ever get used to detached hooves and fur, even if it’s for a festa. We went to the market on Saturday, along with the rest of the village, to buy enough food to feed the entire island. My mom literally held my hand as we made our way through the maze of merchants, introducing me to each vender along the way. I always eat a light breakfast when my mom says we are going to the market because I know I am about to encounter squealing pigs in sacks, flies feasting on raw meat, and dead fish staring at me. After it’s all said and done, I have a feeling I will be a true-life vegetarian.

Although the festa was officially Sunday, I have learned that festas never last for merely a day. Whether it’s a birthday, funeral, or religious celebration, everyone will celebrate for a minimum of 3 days. By everyone, I mean everyone -- festas come with an unspoken open invitation. On Friday night, the village gathered at the soccer field to dance the batuka, grill mysterious meats and mingle. Although I went home around 2am because I could not keep my eyes open, my sister and brothers stayed until 7am. And the process was repeated Saturday night, with the addition of more food, music and people. After asking my brother how he stays awake for 3 consecutive nights, he gave me a confused look and said, “Sleep on Monday. Festa is sabi (meaning really good).” Sunday consisted of what I like to call “txiga’ing.” [As I walk home each day, my neighbors yell “txiga, txiga,” meaning come come. They will continue to yell and motion you into their home until you give in and stay awhile.] I started at one end and made my way across the village, stopping to eat more than I could hold, dancing until my legs ache, and using every Kriolu word I knew. Everyone wants to feed you. You cannot be too full. No does not mean no.

This weekend was a time for my village to shine. They are proud of the fact that they can fill your stomach with food, your soul with dancing, and your heart with community. I am proud to be a part of this community, even if for a short time. My family and neighbors have introduced me to an entirely new world -- full of hard, manual labor and hot rays of sunshine, yet rich in community, life and fellowship. When time is not money, you get to know a different side of people. A side of people that is more concerned with giving than receiving, listening than talking, and happiness over profit.
XOXO

Captain Crunch

What I would give for a heaping salad from Whole Foods or a bowl of peanut butter Cap’n Crunch cereal…I have never appreciated America’s amenities, America’s flavors, America’s establishments more than I do now. I guess you could say I have become a bit patriotic. We are living the good, good life.
One thing’s for sure – Cape Verde does not know the meaning, or should I say the experience, of candy. I realize this is probably a good thing, but my sweet tooth is calling and I am tired of being offered “candy” which amounts to a bad tasting cough drop. I am contemplating introducing the heavenly combination of peanut butter and chocolate to the island…sometimes I think I can taste a Reese Cup melting in my mouth. One of our favorite pastimes has become a contest in which each PCV describes the perfect meal, followed by a democratic vote of hands, that inevitably leads to rumbling tummies and quiet dreaming. No matter when, where, or why we get together, food is always discussed. You can only eat so much white rice, white bread and potatoes – or can you?
Food and diet give much insight into a country, a village of people. I am experiencing firsthand what it is like to eat for the sole purpose of survival and financial practicality. Taste, nutrition, and presentation are cast aside because its costs are too costly. Yet, do the costs always outweigh the benefits --- How can we integrate essential aspects of nutrition into the Cape Verdean diet while preserving cultural traditions and bank accounts? Is it person to person, family to family, village to village?
As for reliable utilities, you can forget it. When it gets dark in Cape Verde, it gets dark. This makes for prime stargazing on my roof; however, when the power goes out (as it often does), life comes to an immediate halt. I am still trying to master the secret behind the availability of electricity and water in my village. Sometimes when I turn on my bedroom light, it works. Oftentimes, it does not. Sometimes when I turn on the water, it works. Oftentimes, it does not. Before flipping a switch, I close my eyes, hold my breath, and say a little wish, hoping for success. It’s a good day when no one has to fetch water from the well. If only I were an engineer – solar energy is calling Cape Verde’s name.
After some time, I have finally discovered what happens to my trash. Each time I ask my mom for the trashcan, she holds out her hand. Trash pick-up consists of gathering your waste in a wheelbarrow and dumping it over the bank, to be eaten by pigs and eventually, burned. Bottles, cardboard, paper and plastic fill the banks below my house – no systematically placed trash cans, no recycling. I should clarify that if the trash makes it to the bank, it’s a successful day. Littering is commonplace – most candy wrappers can be found exactly where the last bite was consumed.
We were informed, by veteran PCV’s, that our 9 week training period can be compared to “boot camp” – we are tested, challenged and stretched – to fully prepare us for the next two years. If you can’t tell from my nostalgic blog post, I’m starting to feel the heel of the boot. I promise to appreciate those simple, yet wealthy pleasures just a little more – chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven, checking out a library book, snuggling under freshly washed sheets, or enjoying the shade of a blossoming tree.
XOXO

Working To Work It Out

I realized that I never completed my last blog post. I got too excited about potential curly tailed pets and my thirty-minute Internet session ended. In sum, I have a lot to learn from the Cape Verdean women. They work hard -- an intense, committed physical labor that is foreign to me. I am learning each and every day, with fresh blisters to show for it.
As for new happenings -- I attended my first family “festa” this weekend that continued into a night of dancing at the one and only “diskotecha” in the village. My mom pushed me out the door Sunday night, with money in hand, insisting that I participate in the village festivities with my brothers…what a mom! Upon entering the diskotecha (or club as we like to call it across the pond) the women immediately wanted to teach me how to properly dance, moving my hips in ways I did not think they could move, while the men either grabbed my hand to dance or curiously watched my attempt at dancing like a local. After all, when you can’t blend in, you must stand out. Dancing is the center of life here in Cape Verde. I am convinced if I can master the funana and the batuka, I will win their hearts.
As of Monday, I am the proud owner of an official Cape Verdean cell phone. With the purchase of a phone, it became more concrete that Santiago is my home for the next two years…exciting, scary and overwhelming all rolled into one. Still processing one day, one rooster, one Kriolu word at a time.
On the job front -- I am eagerly anticipating learning the ins and outs of the university where I’ll be teaching. The institute became a university in 2006, graduating its first official class last week! What an opportunity to help mold and form the beginning fingerprints of UNI-CV! Currently, only 1/3 of enrolled students graduate due to lack of academic guidance, lack of financial promise and/or lack of career opportunities in Cape Verde. I have a newfound appreciation for American universities – especially that Tar Heel blue.
I almost forgot -- last night, my brother brought a pet monkey to dinner. My brother said I could have my very own pet monkey; however, we all know my interactions with monkeys didn’t go so well in the past. Maybe Cape Verdean monkeys are different than Central American monkeys?
XOXO

Pig!

15 people in the back of a small truck bed along with sacks of rice, fruit, bread and vegetables attained at the market, while hugging the curves of mountainous roads and whizzing by planters working the dry, dusty fields and women fetching water on their head -- Each day this week I waited for the “hiace” never knowing if my fellow passengers would be pigs or people, so that I could travel to a neighboring city to receive immunizations, attend informational workshops, and train for my upcoming job. It was refreshing to leave the confines of my village, even if it was only to receive shots and homework.
It’s a hard life here in Cape Verde and the days are long, especially for the women. By the end of each day, I am mentally and physically exhausted. Nothing is instant here – no microwave, no Internet, no washing machine. My hands are peeling and my knuckles are bloody just from washing my clothes by hand. I have blisters on my palms from preparing corn for “oatmeal.” I leave in the morning dusty and sweaty and return in the evening dusty, sweaty and itchy. I never feel clean. Even washing my face is a chore, involving boiling and storing water. No time, or need, for make-up, hair dryers, and accessories. I haven’t looked into a mirror for a full week because my family does not own one and its practical uses seem insignificant. Cape Verdean women do not take time for themselves – no curling up with your favorite book or going to the gym for some “me” time.
Every wrinkle on my mom’s face, every callus, tells a story. She is the first to wake and the last to go to bed. She wakes only to confront the daily necessities of fetching water, starting breakfast over a fire, mopping the floors, and feeding the animals. Her day is filled with caring for others, especially the men, while also managing the family store. My mom washes the entire family’s clothes by hand, only to then iron every inch of shirts, pants, towels, underwear and sheets to avoid the dreaded bot-fly. My mom goes to the market, at least weekly, to walk up and down the aisles, negotiating the prices of meat, fruit and vegetables with specific vendors. Before I go to bed, I always ask her if she is tired and she always responds with a sweet smile, “No.”
My family treats me like a queen. I eat with the men, and after we are finished, full and on our way, my mom and sister eat the leftovers. They constantly ask me what I like to eat, changing their daily diets to fit my needs and wants. My mom empties my dirty bath water, helps me clean my dirty clothes, picks the bones out of my fish, and feeds me constantly. She is never in a hurry – always taking time to decipher my broken Kriolu and funana with me around the kitchen.
Quick side note - I decided this week that my mission is to save at least one pig from going to market. I hope to buy a pet pig as soon as I move to my site mid-September. I will most likely be living in the city, but I do not think there are any city regulations concerning pigs - more to come on that note. Get excited!
XOXO

So Sabi

Culture shock - from a rooster sitting on my kitchen table to eating white rice, potatoes, and fish at EVERY meal, I can now officially say I´m experiencing Cape Verde. I moved in with my homestay family a week ago and needless to say, it´s been an adjustment. My family speaks no English, only Kriolu, which makes even small tasks difficult. For instance, upon my arrival at their home, which is also the village store, I attempted to help them re-stock with bags of rice, boxes of meat, and cases of drinks. My help turned into me silently carrying the boxes around the store looking for their home while trying to avoid getting in the way of my brothers and sisters. I then proceeded to ask my mother if I could take a bath using the only 2 words I knew related to the bathroom - banu y laba. My mother spent the next 15 minutes trying to explain the concept of a bucket bath. To say the least, it´s an experience that leaves me with soapy hair and sore legs.
I wake each morning around 4am to the sounds of multiple roosters. After I toss and turn for a couple of hours, my 6 year old nephew wakes me around 6am. I usually go for a jog before the heat descends on the village, attempting to burn off my diet of complete and utter starch. Because my family´s home is not fully enclosed, animals are always in abundance. While I´m eating some variation of white rice and fish, baby chicks are begging for food under the table, the family´s goats are waiting patiently outside the door, and the dog is sitting by my feet.
I´ve discovered my home is the hot spot and no matter the time of day, there is music playing, kids running here and there, and teenagers looking for something to do. I have become the source of entertainment on multiple occassions - laughing at my broken Kriolu and asking me if I know Beyonce, Jay Z, and Rihanna.
My mom asked me if America was hot, and I attempted to tell her that Cape Verde gives an entirely new meaning to the word hot. It´s a hot that stays with you, that drains all your energy, and leaves me dreaming of a fan. I attend language classes from 8am to 5pm, only to come home to my brain swimming in Kriolu and my family patiently trying to converse with me. I could not ask for a more gracious community and family. Everyone wants to teach me the funana, feed me, and talk with me. I anticipate fully integrating myself into the community and discovering what I can do for them. I am realizing that you must first live with the people, before you can do anything for the people.
I took my first bucket bath, I have a cold that I most likely received from my nephew, I washed all my clothes by hand, I attended my first real futbol game,and I attempt to sleep under a mosquito net while suffering from vivid dreams due to malaria pills. This is by far the most difficult, yet rewarding job I´ve ever had and it´s only week two. My village has no internet, but I´m going to try and keep my blog updated - we´ll see how it goes.
I tell everyone abuot my friends and family! I miss you!

XOXO

Landed!

.06% of Americans serve in the Peace Corps. I’m not sure if I should be proud or scared of this fact. Time will tell. I am officially here (!) my home for the next two years, Cape Verde (pronounced Ver-d or Vur-d). After a brief orientation in Boston, followed by a 7-hour plane ride to Cape Verde, we were greeted by a crowd of veteran Peace Corps volunteers and staff members with cameras, signs and reassuring smiles. The first few days have been a blur of safety precautions, icebreakers, medical kits, interviews, language classes, more documents to sign, and oodles of acronyms. We are staying in the Madre Teresa dormitory in Praia, all 24 of us on one hall, sharing one bathroom -- I feel like I’ve reverted back to college. The bonding has begun: taking cold showers with little water pressure, sweating 24-7 with no air condition to escape the tropical heat, brushing our teeth with bottled water, eating rice and beans at least twice a day, learning how to effectively treat water, and attending informational sessions solely about diarrhea.

I wish I had time to tell you about everything; however, time is limited and Internet is slow so I will skip to my favorite day thus far. On Sunday night, we met the U.S. ambassador of Cape Verde and the Millennium Center director. This was followed by a night of traditional dancing (fanana in particular), food and much mingling, where we tried out our new Kriolu language skills. Dancing is by far the most effective icebreaker, forming bonds that immediately break language and culture barriers. At the end of the day, we are all people, whether we were born in Cape Verde or born in Texas. We all know how to move our bodies and most of us even like it, even if it’s only in front of a mirror in our underwear.

As for up and coming news -- on Wednesday, I move to Assomada and meet my host family! This is where I will live until mid-September. Multiple Kriolu cram sessions are in order so that I will be able to say at least a few words to my family when I arrive. Although Portuguese is the official language of Cape Verde, on a daily basis, everyone speaks Kriolu. Portuguese is only spoken, or written in formal settings and publications, such as the newspaper. In addition, only a small percentage of the population (~.05%) can write in Kriolu – they only know how to speak it. More to come on that end, very interesting nonetheless. I also found out that my role in Cape Verde is defined as “teacher trainer,” consisting of teaching classes at the university, evaluating new teachers, and supervising educational research. I will most likely be teaching in Praia (the capital) at the local university. This morning I went for a jog (not alone might I add) and watched the sun rise over the water, listening to the waves crash against the shore. I think I could get used to living in this city.

Entirely new world -- new culture, new place, new food, new people, new weather, new language. Living on $4 a day. Cape to the Verde, here I come.

Bon Dia!

XOXO.

Hold Me Tight

Roach motels. Tri-band phone. Shortwave radio. After scouring Redwood City for roach motels and interrogating the Verizon employee about the characteristics of a tri-band phone, I gave up on finding these "recommended" items. Hopefully they are not essential, especially the roach motels...

As I write this entry, I have traded my favorite tunes for Creole podcasts, savored my favorite southern foods, and attempted to slim down my most important possessions into two suitcases, no small feat might I add. After numerous "see you later's," packing and repacking, visiting the doctor for travel prescriptions, gathering necessary documents, and attempting to tie up various loose ends, I am ready.

By ready I only mean the to-do list is complete. Am I mentally and emotionally prepared for this trip? Is that even possible? Often, I want to jump on the plane this very moment. Thirty seconds later, I am gripping my childhood stuffed animal hoping for comfort. I am scared. I am excited. I am nervous. I feel like a kindergartner on the first day of school -- you envision your classroom, friends and teacher. You anticipate the arrival of school for what seems like an eternity (especially if you have an older sibling) and when the day finally arrives, you become anxious and not so sure of that big, outside world. You fear the worst and hope for the best.

Here's to hoping, anticipating and envisioning:
Thursday, July 15 -- Arrive in Boston for staging event
Friday, July 16 -- Meet instant friends, fellow PC volunteers
Saturdayish (12:30am), July 17 -- Leave for Cape Verde
Saturday, July 17 (9:30am or 6:30am EST) -- Arrive in Praia, capital of CV
July 17 - July 21 -- Brief orientation, including vaccinations
July 21 -- Move in with homestay family for remainder of 9 week training


Now is the time for the polar bear plunge, 2 days and counting.

The Big Kahuna

Why? People have continually asked me why -- why would I choose to venture across the world, away from everything familiar. It's an honest, daunting question that I have tried, and will continue to attempt to answer. My answer begins with Jackie, a young Belizean girl. Each time I visit Central America I am astounded and horrified, overjoyed and saddened by a simplistic happiness that is bound in daily struggle. After spending a week in the children's home reading, playing, listening, and snuggling, Jackie asked me to promise that I would come back. Without hesitation, I said yes. I said yes to a global, yet personal responsibility that overshadows comfortable career choices which nicely blanket my 401k.

I turn on a water faucet multiple times a day, expecting clean, temperature-regulated water. I visit the doctor if I am ill, expecting immediate relief. I turn on the air condition on a hot, summer day and avoid the heat in every way possible. I drive two minutes and visit a grocery store with an abundance of fresh, organic food. I shop online, with everything imaginable shipped overnight to my front door. I attend a university, surrounded by 24-7 access to knowledge, technology, culture and diverse opinion.

Jackie sleeps in a small house with 49 other children and adolescents. Jackie suffers from worms as a result of a lack of clean water. Jackie walks to school, rain or shine, heat and humidity. Jackie grows up holding on to her family, defined by the people who come in and out of the children's home, because these faces are dependable. Health care is nonexistent for Jackie -- it is defined by occasional visits from foreign doctors and medical volunteers. Crime goes unpunished and free, as legal matters are tied in the aftermath of a corrupt government. Dentistry is a luxury that only a few obtain, no regular cleanings and x-rays, no fillings for that aching tooth. Jackie unknowingly painted my picture of responsibility.

I am now equipped with an idealistic, yet educated passion that will carry me to Cape Verde. I envision education through discussion, exchange and partnerships that will meticulously redefine our world for the better. It begins with reciprocity of communication, ideas and development. Americans must relearn as well as rebuild a happiness that is currently lost in materialism, power and white picket fences. I must learn how to achieve without wanting, work without hurry, and appreciate without envy.

My decision to commit to Cape Verde for 2.5 years, as both teacher and student, is defined by an undaunted craving for prosperity -- an exchange of wealth including happiness, sustainability, equality and knowledge.

I invite you, my avid reader and fellow confidant, to begin this life-changing journey with me as my intrepid co-explorer of thought and conversation.

Seek. Enjoy. Taste. Question.