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.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
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
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
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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
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
Thursday, September 2, 2010
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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