Thursday, August 26, 2010

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.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

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

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

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

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

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

Monday, August 2, 2010

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