has anyone out there had the pleasure of listening to A Perfect Circle's "Orestes"? I remember the first time I heard it. I was a freshman in college and i fell immediately in love with this song. so much so, that i had to go bang on ian's door and (not knowing ian at this point) demanded what song was playing.

i wish i could say ian and i became really awesome friends, but we didnt. so lets end the story of how i found that song and proceed with daily events.

I havent had a single bout of severe crying lately. its been almost four days. ive seen friends i hadnt seen in 4 years or 10 years. ive organized all my pictures on facebook. im cleaning my room (which i hadnt done since i moved out... which was when i was eighteen). its little things like these that help me keep going. organizing makes me feel like there's some order to this chaos we live in. seeing friends from long ago makes me feel that no matter what happens, if you are meant to stay in someone's life, you will. putting all my facebook pictures in order makes me feel like i just had a blast to the past. it reconnected me with some people too. its strange how technological geeky things like that, makes a difference.

so now, we await what happens next. im moving earth, wind and fire to get some things done. who knows whats next for me. i sure as hell dont. but i have an inexplicable amount of hope that just keeps me going. for every person that wishes me evil, there's two that wants to see me succeed. that my friends, is what life is really all about.

you gotta give a good fight. and you gotta surround yourself with love. no matter what. surround yourself with pets and plants and people that only want the best for you. that will tell you "you're gonna fuck it up if you do that" or simply smile and say to you "good luck, i know you'll do great".

so there. thats my update right now. the more intense sort of update goes elsewhere. consider yourself informed, strangers! (or in amanda's and nichole's case... NOT strangers).

ps- really. go download the song "orestes". i promise you, you'll really love it.

i am so sick and tired... actually FED UP with guys saying shit like "you're important to me" or "i care about you" or even better, "im crazy about you".

no you're not.

you saying it doesnt show me anything. your actions do. are guys for real? do they think all of us go putty in their hands when they say shit like this? am i crazy in getting irrate when they speak BIG WORDS but actually have no actions to back it up??? this shit drives me fucking mad.

and before you ask what happened (i can forsee the private emails)... nothing happened to me directly. not yet at least.

so just consider this a well thought-out rant.

what will be, will be. and there is nothing more to that. just like what has been, has been and there's no way of cleaning the mess up.

progress:

i didnt wake up crying. i woke up, listened to some music and then i cried.

then i also talked to my parents, who are back sooner than expected from their trip. it wasnt such a good talk, unfortunately and my spirits are lower than low.

i also got an email from the peace corps telling me i only have access to 45 kilos of my stuff to be sent back.

awesome. 45 kilos are all my books alone i think.

on a lighter note, my friends have been really keeping me afloat. the second my head starts going under, one of them swims right next to me and lifts me up. how i got so lucky, im not too sure, but im grateful every minute of the day.

My friend, you've sent me a life line via email. Thank you. And amazing lyrics, which is all a girl can ask for during these times.

i told that to my friend last night. she has been checking up on me everyday, bringing coffee or simply keeping me company. last night, was the first time in the last 72 hours plus, that i felt like leaving the house. it was brief, maybe 30 minutes or so. it was strange. i was happy, and i laughed with my friend about our lives. i told her about the boy in south africa, i told her about togo. i felt stories flow out of my mouth swiftly, without a trace of sadness. maybe being in public helps because then i wont cry. i cant cry in public.

well, thats a lie. when i said goodbye to him at the airport in joburg, i cried. but then, a state of shock inevitably fell upon me. somehow that is also vanishing too.

im still struggling with the mornings. my parents arrive today. congrats on not doing anything stupid, olga! you're alive and did it without any parental supervision. i must've been one hell of a mess to have my brother check up on me. i dont mean to worry anyone. i'll bounce back. i just take time to do so.

this blow, was hard.

but today, as difficult as it is for me to see the morning, i'll try to make it slightly better. how, im not sure. if i was hungry, i'd make myself baked ziti or maybe make an apple pie... but im not. i still cant eat. if i were sleeping better, i'd probably have a clearer mind, but its cluttered right now.

if my heart was doing any better, i'd probably watch a funny movie. but the last thing i want to do, is watch something senseless.

that doesnt make much sense, does it? i havent made much sense since.

and then, there's the wonderful invention of SKYPE. i have talked and seen my best friend. its been too long, yet not long enough. the power went out last night in the middle of our conversation. i felt right at home. i lit a candle and kept on my business. who would've thought that the smell of candle wax burning would comfort me so much?

the first eleven hours of my flight towards amsterdam, were a blur. i dont remember anything. i dont remember smells, tastes, movies, sounds, textures. i dont remember leaving the aircraft when we landed, nor do i remember walking into the airport at all.

all i remembered was africa. all i could smell was africa, touch africa, taste africa.

the following twelve hours to mexico city, were even a bigger blur. i remember getting so annoyed by the slightest things. children didnt even make me smile anymore. i was angry. i was sad. and now, at present time, im scared of whats to come.

see, when they medically separate you, they dont let you fly back to your country of service. i didnt get to say goodbye. i didnt get to pick up my things and leave. i didnt get to give an explanation to the people i was serving. it was just an immediate removal.

all because of a minor pain that doctors assumed was apendicitis. all because of me. i shouldve kept my mouth shut. i should've just winged it. but i didnt.

and then i have other emotional factors outweighing everything. i left someone that i care a lot about in pretoria. i am left with multiple questions for the universe. who the fuck do you think you are? and most importantly, why do you do this? why is it that i find someone that im perfectly comfortable with, in a country thats 23 hours away from my home of record? and im not saying that im not happy it HAPPENED. all im saying is, why cant it last longer or why on earth do we have to have it so difficult? i mean, really.

i guess its me not wanting to find out the truth if its any different from what i want it to be. i dont want to find out that this relationship isnt going to last. i dont want to find out if i never make back to africa.

everything tells me its different. that whatever happens is much different than other things before.

really?

because im pretty sure im the universe's #1 laughing matter.

im so furious and so sad and so lost right now. i cant eat, i cant really sleep and i cant function properly. i dont want to go out. i dont want to smile. if i remember something that makes me laugh, it goes right along with tears because i dont have it anymore.

G-d. what now?

i am medically separated.

probably getting dumped in mexico city when im clearly telling them there IS NO ONE there to pick me up, let me in and basically know im coming back.

assholes.

dont ever volunteer to the peace corps. ever. if you want to see the world, try finding out other NGOs and steer clear from the government.

they will try to fuck you over no matter what you do.

dear peace corps,

i dont have appendicitis. i would appreciate it if you relaxed a little bit and let me go back to Togo to do what i signed up to do for the next 27 months of my life.

a cyst that my own doctor isnt worried about, is not going to stop me from working. ive had one before and i didnt even know i had it until i randomly checked it.

so stop being so prudish about this and let me do what i need (and most importantly, WANT) to do.

thank you,

olga

i really do.

I dont want you to think for a second that i dont understand whats happening here in pretoria. its another oxford. if there is anything that i understand, its the heartbreak of leaving a place that means a lot to you without it being your place of origin.

when i was 22 and went to oxford, i foolishly thought that i was happening to oxford; that somehow i was making it become whatever i wanted. "i want a good time" i told myself, and out i would go every day in search of said good times without really realizing what i meant by that. i did know, however, that something strange was occuring to me as i walked between cobble-stone corridors or when i sat at St. Michael's church downtown. i didnt realize that life was happening to me, that life was MOLDING ME to what she thought was pertinent. I didnt get the notion that its not just a place happening to you or you just happening to a place. it becomes a mixture of the both: i was a passionate kid, out of college with really big dreams and no clue as to what she wanted in life. oxford was the culmination of education for me. it held the best of the best in everything that i truly love: music, literature, and culture. we both happened to each other and when i left, it shouldnt have been a shock to figure out one thing:

i was devastated. i felt like i was being torn from the only great lover i had ever known. his name was oxford and all i wanted was to be with him. i have never quite forgotten him. nor do i think i will ever really do. i thought this feeling wasnt possible.

it was. and it happened here in south africa.

my lover's name is Pretoria, and she is phenomenal. she is radical and feisty. she has a history of abuse and of love. she has a fusion of heritage fighting for her but she is a sturdy warrior. she's here and she's stubborn. she likes to keep to herself, prefering the world to find her rather than her finding the world. she's ancient, and i love her. i see myself in her a lot.

her biggest crime, was loving me back. and now, i am left with the strange recollection that i have been here before. i have had to bid farewell to a lover once before and now, i am about to do it again. i am desperate to find ways to claw myself in here, to stay. grow roots until its time to fly off again and the war within myself explodes one more time.

i dont want to leave, but i have to keep my word. im starting to believe however, that i am not as honest as i should be with myself. i dont want the life people are telling me to live. i dont want to have a 9-5 job. i dont want to promise myself grandiosity when i can barely manage to live my life honestly. i want to break free. live wherever i want to. spend my time with oxford, and pretoria. become something much more than this. become clearer. i know what i need, and i might even know how to get there.

im just scared to jump for it.

i get it.

that makes me a coward.

when am i ever going to stop living in the sidelines? when am i ever going to say "im in" without being afraid of losing everything i theoretically have achieved?

here is an update of my most recent days here in South Africa.

doctor: its time to wake up, olga

me: doc, you have beautiful eyes

doctor: thank you. *to the nurses* she is clearly high.

me: doc, i dont lie. not even on drugs. not even on dru.... *zzZZZZZZZZ*

*POST SURGERY*

everything is blurry. i thought it was my eye (specifically my left eye) so i kept winking, trying to wipe off the blurriness. all in vain. i was doped up on some amazing tranquilizer.

nurse: how are you feeling?

me: hungry

nurse: here's your food... wait, where's your food. it was right here a second ago

me: yeah. i ate it already. i figured it was mine.

mom: what? when did this happen?! you just got here!

me: stealth, ma. stealth.

my mom is here because she wanted to keep me company for surgery. although the surgery itself was simple enough, it was so comforting having her there. i also passed out for the first time in my life. fainted... it was the strangest feeling in the world. all i know is that the nurses wanted me to poop (because after being anesthetized, you need to prove to them you are all good by... defecating). "go in there and poop. once you're done, let me know. i need to see it in order to discharge you." i was baffled. since when does the hospital have a "i need to see your poop" policy? i felt a little invaded. thats a lie. i have no performance anxiety. i can poop on command if you really wanted me to.

but im assuming you dont, so im gonna continue into my fainting spell. i guess i got up a bit too quick and all i remember feeling was coldness and numbness. i had a cold cloth on my forehead but it wasnt doing much. i went cold, and then all i heard was this:

nurse 1: SFJDIRERIERW$I%^(%^%(^%!

nurse 2: $#$(#$#$#$#_*^&() faint?!

nurse 1: *to me* you're ok, you're ok. just breathe for me ok?"

me: where am i?

nurse 1 &2 : the toilet

me: oh yeah. i pooped. you can look at it. i felt two solid turds fall.

so because i fainted, i had to remain in the hospital for a couple more hours. but thats when my delirious desire to eat chocolate cake took over me. "mom, i have to have it" i told her in a feverish outcry. "i need it now." my mom, being my mom of course, lifted her eyebrow as she looked at me. "im going to get you this cake," she said "but you are high as high can go".

which, as we all know by now, was true.

but my mom did find chocolate cake. the best chocolate cake i have ever eaten. i also think its been the only chocolate cake ive devoured in three bites. good thing i dont do drugs, otherwise i'd be going on a chocolate cake rampage constantly, putting on all the wrong pounds on, and committing some atrocious crimes. chocolate cake can make you do some serious injury.

so after my cake and about 23829382892732 gallons of water, i felt much better and was finally able to leave. i have been so incredibly lucky. ive had no real pain. a lot of exhaustion, but no pain. the doctor has no reason to believe that what she removed was cancerous, which is a giant relief. i should be heading home soon, regardless of the togolese elections.

and now im on sunday, a great weekend almost past me. a lot of hope before me. now there's only good health to hold on to and love.

on a slight side note, I SHAKE MY FIST AT YOU MECHANICS BANK. *SHAKES FIST* but you did, in a way, helped me have a very brief but lovely conversation with someone i care a lot about and is a phenomenal friend. so thank you for that.

other than that, i will write later about my first rugby game ever. it was epic, it was such a great time. it was life, love, fight. it was all i needed.

it was the cherry on top of this complex banana split.

HURRAH!

i survived! but im on hold in heading back to togo because of the elections. apparently, i might have to stay here for standfast (15 days). I mean, shit. if i have to stay in south africa in perfect health because of some political reason...

im down for it!

am i just doomed to think of the worst case scenarios? for real. because tomorrow i go into surgery. pretty similar to my last and only other surgery ive ever had. notice how im not even capitalizing or punctuating this correctly. im that nervous.

actually, thats a lie. i dont punctuate or check my capitals for any reason unless im doing something incredibly special. i should consider this special. i dont want this to be my last blog, but i cant help thinking about the tragic end when something goes wrong in a very simple procedure.

i guess its not the fear of death itself that paralyzes me. i think its the idea of losing life. i love life so much that i cant help but think "G-d, i really just dont want to go yet." and i dont. im planning on babies and finding my man and living in a beautiful apartment somewhere in oxford. im planning on writing books and going back to school.

i cant die without knowing what its like to be madly in love with someone who is equally in love with me. if you have that, why the fuck are you wasting your time reading this?! GO TO THAT PERSON! TELL THEM YOU LOVE THEM! SHOW THEM YOU LOVE THEM!

"make love as much as possible, its good for you" said my husband in another life, kurt vonnegut. he's right. always find a reason to make sex. its great. it cures 99.9% of all uneasiness and when you love that person.. My G-d how beautiful life is.

i cant stop thinking that i had this same anxiety back in 2008 when i had my surgery (round 1). everything turned out ok, and yeah whatever. but what if. what if what was suppose to happen anyway, just got delayed a year and a half?

again, i really dont want to die.

and i would really really REALLY love to stop thinking about all these terrible scenarios.

so promise me this, reader. i know someone is reading this because every day i have about 30 hits... hopefully not from the same person. anyway...

promise me you will live your life because if for some reason i dont wake up tomorrow, id be pissed as fuck to see you waste it. i will become your worst nightmare. i will be that creepy dude in "saw" x 34839439848934398473498.

LOVE LIFE. its only yours.

so for now, keep me in good thoughts and bless me if you want. i always appreciate good vibes.

I believe in take-out food.

Allow me a moment to explain this situation.

The world of Peace Corps is divided into three worlds: those that live in a regional capital (or close to one), those that live in villages near civilization, and those (like myself) that are so remote, we’re lucky to find out if our country of service is in a civil war. In other words: the spoiled, the brats, and the shafted.

I am a shafted volunteer.

The list of things you go through as a “SHAFTED” volunteer is below:

1) Never, under any circumstances, have an emergency during Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. These are market days, the Holy Days for Togolese people. You will have no access to transportation at all. Until 7 pm and by then, the roads are so dark you might as well resign to the fact of being SHIT OUT OF LUCK.

2) You don’t have electricity. Don’t ever count on having access to cold water. Your choices are warm water, or hot water. G-d Speed.

3) You don’t have running water. Bonn Chance in getting some petit to fetch you some water. Otherwise, you’re on your own. And if you are on your own, chances are, you will end up wearing the water.

4) Transportation is not only a bitch, it’s expensive. When you’re earning CFAs, you better be ready to pay about half of your income in the quarter on transportation.

5) You have no roads. Therefore, your taxi moto will most likely A) break down at some point, leaving you to walk about 5 kms in the midday sun with 100% humidity. I’m not kidding. Your “road” might also become a mudslide, so instead of actually traveling through moto, you might as well put on a pagne and slip and slide all the way to your nearest city (in my case, Tsevie).

6) Your traffic includes: goats, sheep, and children. Children have never really seen a white person. The best word in their vocabulary is “Yovo”.

7) Adults have seen many white people, but they never quite get over it. Their vocabulary extends a bit further to “Yovo, cadeau”.

8) These are the people I wouldn’t mind running over with a moto.

9) You cook in the dark. And let me tell you, the kitchen at night is the best time to catch animals you can rest assured National Geographic haven’t gotten around to naming.

10) The next time you see multiple volunteers, you will either have a nervous breakdown because its so overwhelming to hear English, or you will be talking someone’s ear out.

11) When you need food, you need to have a BIG RUN. Meaning, you will be carrying approximately, 6 plastic bags back to village.

12) Normal travel time: 3-10 hours. Never anything less. NEVER.

Living in a remote area like Nyassive, has its awesome perks. First of all, I get my own fruit from surrounding trees. I get abundant amounts of papaya, pineapple, and bananas my own host mom gets for me on the tree. I would love to one day climb said tree, but given the fact that I have never really had much experience on physical conditioning (the most challenging sport has been channel surfing and I can tell you my thumbs are in top condition) I think the smartest thing to do is simply watch from afar. Think Discovery Channel meets Real World… minus the sleeping around and the strenuous physical demands (although these go hand in hand sometimes. Specially in the world of PC).

So the whole point of why I just wrote this, was to justify my reason of gorging myself on all the food possible (yes, including McDonalds and KFC). I have had Indian food, Thai, salads with lush veggies and amazing cheeses. I have had multiple experiences with eye candy as well. Oh how I love South Africa. How I love Pretoria.

But even though I have that “shafted” list, I miss my village. I miss waking up every morning to the sound of either a child crying, a goat crying, or something completely unidentifiable crying. What I miss the most is my sky. I miss being able to see more stars than my eyes could swallow. I miss the sound of palm trees rustling. I miss my matron at the dispensaire and Bene. I bet they think I forgot about them and I can’t digest that. It makes me feel like shit. I want to go back, and I want them to know what happened. But C’est la vie au Togo. I don’t have email, no telephones, and no other way of accessing the village.

I just hope they remember me by the time I get back.

Shit. I even miss my latrine. There’s an intimate connection with my latrine.

You have had those moments, I can assure you.

I am talking about those moments that freeze you in time; holding on to the last bit of reality around you. You remember what time it was, how the clock was ticking, how the seat felt on your ass or how the floor felt on your feet. You remember songs that would fit the moment you are living through. “I feel like __________ song would fit so wonderfully right now” you think to yourself. You also realize that you do that in order to stay calm because the last thing you want to do, is panic.

I am here to tell you, I am one who panics relatively easy. I do. Does anyone remember the first episode of “Lost” when Jack tells Kate that he gives himself 5 minutes to let fear claim him and then he takes control? Well, I haven’t mastered the time limit on that one yet. 5 minutes to me is nothing. I let fear claim me without much of a fight. I am a class A wimp, specially when it comes to medical things. You tell me I have a bad case of the flu, I feel like you just told me I have pneumonia and that I am lucky to be alive. I get a rash and I immediately think “ebola”. I am not kidding. I could be in one of those high tech contained rooms and I would STILL find a reason to panic.

So, needless to say, when the doctor spend about 2 minutes listening to my heart the other day, I knew something was wrong. No one spends so much time in my chest area unless of course, they are exploring other chest-orial things.

“Have you ever been told you had a heart murmur?” She asked me in her thick Afrikaans accent. I barely shook my head when she was explaining to me in her husky voice that she heard something worth checking and that she wanted me to get an ultrasound. I didn’t hear the part where she said “don’t worry too much about it” because she never said it. I was anxiously waiting for that moment. I waited five minutes, then the panic really set in. I waited ten, fifteen, twenty until I caved.

“Are they common?” I asked faintly, mostly because she had me laying down when all I wanted to do was leap out and run out of the office. However, considering the fact that this was the gynecologist and I was completely naked, running out naked would imply doing a lot of explaining and when one panics, the last thing they want to do is explain why on earth they are naked. Or for that matter, why they are panicking. I am still struggling to figure out which one is worth explaining first.

Panic makes a lot of us look ridiculous. I, for one, look like the Apocalypse took place inside my head and claimed the last piece of coordination. I don’t even make panic look glamorous like those people from lost. Not that I’m paying attention to how I look when I am freaking out… but you know what I mean.

Anyway.

The point is, I ended up needing an ultrasound for my heart. To make a point on all this, I want you to know that the facilities in Pretoria are faaaaancy and I felt more like a tourist than a patient. I was touching everything. I was completely ghetto. I also think I ruined their bubbler, but lets not talk about that. Its not nearly as bad as the turd I left floating in their bathroom. I had to evacuate the toilet ninja style. I heart an eight year old take the blame. Thank you, whoever you are. I am sure you will be rewarded in the future.

“Please turn to your left and cradle your head with your left arm. I need you to try and hold still as much as possible.” I immediately realized why the hot guy in radiology was NOT doing this exam. He would’ve had to touch my boobs all the time… not that I would’ve complained about that, but I guess we still have to pay for those services or wait for someone to give them freely.

Just as I was making all these negotiations with both my heart and G-d and the Universe, just as I was saying that I would never eat cheese again and that I would never gain another pound and that I would always jog an X amount of miles in exchange of a healthy heart, the radiologist interrupted me.

“You want to meet your heart?” she said with a smile. I looked at her. I wondered why she chose the word “meet” rather than “look” or something else. I liked it though. Meeting my heart was something worth doing in a lifetime… as long as it remained beating in my chest cavity. And I lifted my chin to see the screen. All of a sudden, the image became clear.

And there it was. My heart. Beating fervently and passionately. Beating with power and commanding all the attention of the room. The gray imaging didn’t impact the mysteriousness of it all. There it was, this little organ beating with the mighty power of something completely above humans.

“It’s completely healthy” said the radiologist. It has a minor leak on the left ventricle, but it’s so minimal we would normally not even mention it to patients”. I wasn’t looking at her as much as I was looking at my new friend. I kept following the rhythm of it: tum tum, tum tum, tum tum. It almost felt like it was telling me in that same exact rhythm: “I’m here. I’m Here. I’M HERE.” I don’t really know how to explain it, maybe because there are no real words to express what I was experiencing at the moment, but I felt like in a way, I was looking at life in the face. I felt life within me, I felt life being a part of me and at the same time detaching from me with its own sense of purpose. It was a beautiful thing, and then, out of the corner of my eye, the radiologist smiled a little bit and said: “You want to listen to it, yah?”

And the most amazing sound came through. A whoosh-whoosh sound came through. It was more powerful than the waves crashing against the rocks late at night. It was softer than a thunder. It was my heart beat. My beat. Personally designed specifically for me, and at that moment I realized that I was living an extraordinary experience. “These are your four chambers of the heart” she pointed at the screen and all I did was follow her finger tracing my heart. If this is what mothers to be feel when they look at a baby, then my G-d everyone should get a heart ultrasound just for the amazing experience.

As the radiologist handed me a tissue to clean off the gel, I caught a glimpse one last time. It was the beating, along with sound, that made me feel like my heart wasn’t only saying “I’m here.” It was telling me much more. It was telling me “I’m here. I love you. I’m here. I love you. I’m here.”

And if I had stayed longer, I am willing to bet it would also say “Stop. Eating. Cheese.”

life has slapped me twice.

so im going to south africa to get checked (thank you PC!) and im leaving today at some point. when my pcmo decides to share my traveling information with me, i will let my family know the details. i also saw, for the first time, a medium sized moth in the med unit. arent they bad luck? mike used to tell me they were good luck because they were always seeking the light. somehow, thats comforting when you're not flying to figure out what the hell is wrong you. now it just feels like this eery sense of doom.

on another note... and quite a note it is.

i dont like people giving me things out of guilt because then i feel guilty myself. all i can say is i hope you didnt do it because you felt obligated to send me stuff. it was really nice, but i cant shake the taste of obligation behind it. if im wrong, have my apology. but if im right, dont ever bother in sending me anything ever again.

i have enough on my plate and this is the last thing of yours i grant attention to until im feeling better. i emailed you, with my very sincere appreciation. and thats all i can do right now.

at the risk of making my legacy as a bitch come full force, i am going to vent for a little bit.

once upon a time, a girl of age sixteen was blasted with the curse of migraines. she lived with them silently for years, thinking they were just headaches that would simply go away. instead, these nasty companions stayed with her for a day or two, making her feel really sick to her stomach. raised in family of tough people, this little girl really didnt feel like talking about these headaches. they kept her company until the age of 19, when she simply couldnt take it anymore. she knew about migraines, but she never really thought that what she had was indeed that cursed malady. so off to the doctor she went, this girl, and found herself in the world of baby aspirin (one a day, to keep the enemy away) and she was fine for a couple of years.

until of course, college came around. the migraines were slightly on the rise (stress, of course... we're sure) but nothing that some strong aspirin couldnt fend off. the young woman kept on going and she was fine. fine and fine.

until of course, she was sent to have an MRI after a particularly bad episode three years ago. she was in severe pain, a little worse than before, and all she could see were spots. she endured the loud MRI in hopes to find a solution for all of this, but as it turned out, her brain was fine. her eyes were fine too. "Its just a migraine" repeated the doctors one echoing after the other.

just a migraine.

2008 rolled around and this young woman decided to take on the exciting task of heading into a corporation that sends people all over the world. this corporation, as liberal and kind as they are, requested all medical forms to be filled out and the very obedient girl did as she was told. but the migraines lingered and she felt slightly sick because her periods were becoming heavier, clottier and excrutiating.

it got to a point that the little girl, the young woman, said she would rather have a migraine than these horrible cramps. but she kept going, thinking it was nerves, stress, or everything else that people tend to blame maladies on. "take some medicine" some would say "just lay down" others would recommend. and the young woman would do all of this, follow every suggestion, and still she was ill.

and she remembered then what her mother always reminded her of. "escucha a tu cuerpo, nena" she'd say with her strong voice "nunca te ha mentido y bien sabes escucharlo."

and the young woman took herself to the doctor who found a pretty big cyst on her right ovary. her dreams of africa were dashed momentarily, but the migraines had ceased and she felt happier and healthier.

until she really did head into africa.

at first it was all chucked up yo very valid situations: the extreme climate change, the drastic diet change, the nerves, the adaptation. the girl was fine. she had her medication with her, solid medicine, and she felt like she was ready to tackle the world. she was nervous at failing, but she was happy.

until she started noticing how exhausted she was and how constantly she was running with slight fevers. "dont tell the med unit" experienced people would tell her "they will find every possible way of kicking you out of country. they dont like to deal with sickness here". and the girl listened at first, but then her body called upon her again.

and she phoned.

month after month after medicine after lotion after all these little things she did, she was getting worse. 10 lbs became 20, 30 and eventually 50 lbs. She momentarily felt good, but then her energy would diminish all over again. once in village, she was moving and active but many times a month, she would just be unable to leave the house.

exhausted.

"anemia" they told her at first. a slight case. a slight case that knocked her out pretty good. wrong birth control pills kept giving her migraines and kept her bleeding for an entire month and a half.

and now, we fast forward to today. when the girl was at this lovely training site, with really wonderful people who did everything to make her feel better but she could not. "i cant feel anything on my left side" she said to a friend. and she cried. the young woman cried for the first time regarding her maladies.

so she requested a proper dose of health care: it wasnt normal for her left eye to go completely blind, nor her entire left side go completely numb. it was also not normal that her right ovary was starting to hurt again and that even though she was on birth control pills, she was not spotting but BLEEDING and with clots.

"i want an MRI and i want a hormone check" the young woman said. she was tired and angry that everyone was dancing over the subject. the young woman knew her mother was concerned, and knew she would call the main HQs to demand health care for her daughter. "i have them a healthy child and i want a healthy child BACK" she said to her daughter.

but it wouldnt be so easy. the young woman felt a bit mocked at her requests. "i dont want to be med sepd" she told her friend, "thats why i dont want to be med evacd. i just want to know whats wrong." instead of giving her the exams she requested, a doctor decided to EMAIL a potential solution: medicate the young woman with a DIFFERENT pill. and she can take as many as up to 4.

how can you diagnose someone through email? the girl pondered. but she knew the answer.

so she is refusing to take the medication. because she doesnt believe in covering the symptoms. she wants to know the cause.

so if there are any Admin people reading this (as i am sure, there are) please just get me some proper exams and i'll leave you and your mighty HQs alone.

the end.

love always,

the little girl/young woman

so here i am, with my ever present bipolar experiences in Togo.

if i met a new volunteer today, id laugh first and then listen to whatever it is that they think their service will be like. after listening to all of this, i'd probably just stare at them blankly and pat them on their backs.

they have no idea.

shit, i myself had no idea for crying out loud.

but i cant tell them that Togo sucks because it doesnt. i cant tell them they wont have great experiences because im still having them to this very day. togolese people are good at living up to their names: they are either the kindest people you will ever meet in your life, or the nastiest shitbags you will ever meet in your life.

please. before you accuse me of being a "jaded american" may i remind you here that i have lived in mexico city since i was 2. i lived in guatemala for a bit and i can compare, freely, togolese people with guatemalans or mexicans.

specifically, i can tell you that as a woman... togolese men (particularly those in tsevie) are the most derrogatory ive encountered. i dont care if this isnt "politically sensitive". instead of checking what im saying, maybe you should spend some time organizing some sort of counceling for women volunteers... you know EXACTLY who you are. anyway, like i was saying.

togolese men (particuarly those in tsevie) win against the mexican nacos. by far. if a naco whistles at me, instead of being angry, i will thank them. really, i will. its better than the obscene gestures these fuckers do here.

on a very personal note,

im pretty bummed out. i found out my friend soulmate here is peacing out. it hits me particularly hard because im trying my best to weed everyone i dont need, out. but i want her around. she's awesome and helps me put things into clearer perspective. *sigh*

i had IST (thats the training you get midway with your homo) and it was great seeing everyone. its funny how the dust settles in after a while. its also very funny how accurate my gut is when it comes to people, but i wont talk about that here :)

shittier things happen in togo. but i wont talk about that here either.

do you ever have these moments where you want to stop time and find the words to express what you feel? its as if time and words were somehow connected to each other; time breathing the life support into your inspiration, your words, your passion, your heart. it pulses through your head, between your ears and eventually either leaves in the shape of the written word, the spoken word, or in the worst scenarios... the ghost word.

its the one that never sees the day of life it was meant to have. and it haunts you with its idea, its message.

its voice.

it happens whenever you want to silence something that you know will provoke people. it will either provoke an uncomfortable feeling that makes them feel alarmed or it will make them feel patronizing.

tell me something. am i crazy for thinking that a child's laugh is G-d's Orchestra? Am i insane for thinking the wind carries messages my ancestors listened to back in the deep jungles of Tikal? have we been so removed from our origin that we have forgotten that the same blood pulses within us? we are here, hear. hear the message, the point, the journey.

its love.

and im not talking the bullshit love false prophets speak of. im not talking about the romantic love hollywood wants you to purchase. im talking about the original sin of love. the original sin that it belonged to everyone because everyone was imperfectly beautiful and needed it. it was once upon a time, free. it came to you just because you simply were.

you still ARE. and dont let anyone make you feel like you dont deserve it.

and dont make the same mistake i have done more than once:

dont ever let anger speak louder than your love.

I think I need to tell you a secret.

I am in love. And my lover's name is Life.

Olga: "Kat, you're Catholic. What the hell does the plague symbolize?"

Kat: "The end of the world, why?"

Olga: "Because I think my latrine just determined our future"

Togo has been very kind to me when it comes to bathroom outlets. It has provided luscious bushes to pee. It has provided me safe havens to poop as gracefully as possible without running the risk of people seeing the white yovo ass staring back at them. Togo, indeed, has been very very kind. I have had the luck of spiders weaving mosquitoes out of my life. I've had snakes eat the annoying little rats that fester on my roof. I've had petits come to my rescue by killing tarantulas with bare hands. They are ninja and I am personally terrified of them. But they are good at the slaughtering of bizarre animals.

But not even the petits could help me with the Apocalyptic event that occurred INSIDE my latrine.

It was one of those nights. I was reading, relaxing after a really intense yoga session. I had been drinking tons of water so when I suddenly had the urge to poop, I didn't question it. I embraced it. I was excited that it felt like a mighty turd would just come out and relief me for the night. So I wrapped myself in a pagne and grabbed my headlamp. I put on my tapettes and marched to my beautiful latrine. I recently cleaned it, dusted it, painted it, and placed magazines in there. You never know when you'll be there for a while. Its a comfortable latrine. Wonderful, really. So when I got in there, and began to lift my pagne and pulling the lid up, it was not only horrifying to see what I saw, but life-altering.

my bum will never feel safe again.

I have, till this day, a massive tidal wave of cicadas covering the entire inside of my latrine. And no, to those that know me and think this is me just exaggerating, allow me to tell you that NO. I AM NOT BEING RIDICULOUS. I ran out of this latrine like that shit was on fire. I think I was screaming too. I can't really remember. I do remember grabbing the gorila ductape in my house and taping that latrine like I had just kidnapped it and was holding it for ransom. Michael, I'll never thank you enough for the ductape you adamantly told me to buy.

But I still had to go. I mean, not only did I already HAVE to go badly, but the adrenaline gave me such a jolt that now I really, REALLY needed to poop. At this point, my hands are shaking, my stomach is rumbling, and my head is spinning. Its 9 pm in village. It's late. No one is really up and I am not, by any means, about to make the Ewe call for emergency because of a plague.

So I look for a place to poop. I go into the bush and try to find a spot and I can now understand why dogs and cats really take their time to poop. You need to find the right spot and there was none that fateful night. So at this point, I'm really honestly looking for anything to just go in.

And that's where my ex-salad bowl became my ex-salad plate. It was either there, or in my pants. My humanity has lost 10 valuable points in dignity but hey, I am still very Zen about this. I am grateful that A) it was at night and B) it was not diarrhea. That would've made me consider an E.T. simply based on human dignity. After pooping (and noticing that my poop was healthy, "s" shape) i threw it into the bush and prayed that no one would find it.

My prayers were answered as my poop magically disappeared over night (I think I owe the goats a big thank you for that one).

And now I hold in my hands the powerful Chinese poison that promises to kill everything from "the annoying ants to the impending horse" (really?).

May the force of extermination be with me.

so here we are, again.

There's been quite a few developments in my life. First of all, my French somehow has managed to evolve from a barely "je suis tres fatiguee" to really complex sentences and combacks like "c'est nes pas ton problem, imbecile!" or "Ta mere me di que je suis tres fantastique". OK, that's really not complex but I am still a little self-conscious about my French spelling. It's pretty atrocious. Anyway. Second thing I've realized, is that I hate coming into Lome. Don't get me wrong, I love living the "high life" in this place but I've been coming in once a week to shape up my solar panel project (what?! already?! yes... yes) and to figure out how on earth I'm going to teach English in my school. I'm really excited about the hopeful project that I want to start with them.

So you guys know that I love writing, right? And we all know I always have my journal and pen ready to write some random thing. Well, it is highly likely, that everyone has a story to tell. Everyone has something to say. So, why not give these students the chance to write and say what they really want. I'm trying to work on the privacy aspect of this still. I don't want them to feel like the director and their teacher will read their private thoughts. I know how all of this is going to start: "today, i went to the marche and bought some XYZ" but the psychology of writing involves a deep trust first within yourself, then with your thoughts, and ultimately, with your environment. There's no point in writing anything if you don't trust it. And sometimes, it writing that helps you trust what you feel. It's a very sacred art of divination sometimes. It attunes you so much with what you're feeling and what you are observing, that it's uncanny sometimes how accurately you can "predict" an outcome of something. At its core, however, writing is also very scientific. There's structure, there's a pattern of weaving you have to follow. But I am going off on a tangent right now.

I guess this is why I want to begin using this blog a lot more. I write a lot on facebook, and that's great. It gives me the immediate response you sometimes yearn for; the "I'm here with you, Olga" feeling. But this place gives me access to something facebook cannot offer sometimes: privacy. And privacy is going to be a huge deal for me this year. I already feel people getting weeded out of my life. I still struggle with wanting them to care, but that's something that will have to inevitably be something I grow out of. If there is something I have witnessed in my own life, is that things are never terrible forever. And the good things in life, are always good no matter how you look at them.

Which leads me to analyze everything that has happened to me on a personal level this last year. I went to Oxford in March, and I realized at that point many pivotal events:

1) My job, although full of phenomenal people I would never trade in the world, was making me literally sick.

2) I was in love with Michael (why I ever told him I wasn't, I will never fucking forgive myself for) but I was in love a lot more with my life.

Then I got accepted into the Health program in a country named Togo. Togo? Where the hell is that?! And out came the world atlas to teach me where my home for the next two years and three months would be. "I am the butt-crack between Ghana and Benin, awesome!" And with Togo, came other hard lessons.

1) I left pretty abrasively. That's never really how you want to leave anyone or anything.

2) I miss my cats more than anything. And most likely, I will never see them again.

3) Resentment is terrible. And even worse when its poured on you by someone thousands of miles away.

4) Retaliation is something I need to stop believing in.

5) Sometimes, you surprise yourself with what you actually CAN do.

Flash-forward through the 3 months of stage. The host family I thought hated me, have turned out to be the one holy grail of sanity. Far from Lome, far from Nyassive, I can still go to that quiet little place in Gbatope and relax. I can still rely on Mama Massan letting me be, but also not letting me get overly sad. "If you cry, I cry" she told me once. "So don't cry". I never really felt the need to cry around her again.

Its just been an epic journey and I am only 7 months in. I have 20 months to go. Which can translate into roughly 83 weeks, 500+ days, etc. That's a lot but not really. I will be back in America in no time. I also feel the biggest irony of this will be that I will wake up, around June 2011 and yell "EUREKA!!! I GET IT!!!!" and then realize, "Fuck, I only have two months left". I am getting way ahead of the game.

And finally, what would 2009 be without mentioning the very painful outcome of a very intense situation? It was awful, but I survived. I'm still angry, but that too will pass. My only problem is that I care about the wrong things and waste my time on wrong people. So 2010 will bring me a nice sabbatical from fucked up individuals. I have my own issues to tend to, and its refreshing to feel that the only person I have to spend time with to heal is me. I wasted some good 8 weeks, but at least I know a little bit more

So here's to starting 2010 with a fresh gust of air. I met someone last night who was fun and just all around nice. And it was just a really nice feeling to know that my heart is alive and well. It was wise not to get too involved with the previous person. My pride however, is another story, hahahaha!!!

I am off to village again. Hopefully I'll be there for the rest of the month and not need to emerge into Lome.

"I don't think that you're serious,that alone could be the death of us" There's a certain loneliness one feels when they have begun to expose all that they are. You feel a numbness in your tongue and a buzz inside your chest that starts pressing all the air out of your lungs. The emotions range from brutal wrath to an epic breakdown, simply because it has been so long since you last gaged a similar situation. You recognize the future downfalls, and you can even begin to call the other person's moves. The need for space, the distance. the silence. But there is also a part of you that you barely recognize. You don't think much of it because, well, you are so damn rusty with all these feelings that it takes a while to get all the dust out of the way to see clearly; to let it all settle accordingly to the shapes and sizes of past ghosts and barricades you carefully situated around your fragility. Its been easy for me to hide here, no wonder past lovers weren't able to find me. I can barely find myself sometimes. And the truth is far more simple and far more complicated than just a logical explanation. I have been in love once, and I have refused ever since, to ever fall in love again. Its very simple you see. You find yourself completely turned inside out for someone; they know you so well. They know how you like your coffee, how you smell after a shower, how you look when you're sleeping after an exhausting day. They know your face when you have an orgasm because the love you feel for them is so strong, you share the most intimate act. You trust them, you've let them go as deep as a human being can possibly go. They can trace your features simply by orchestrating art with their finger in the air: your eyebrow is thick but it narrows towards the end. your eyes are the color of autumn, you smell reminds me of snow. You can still hear them. Even after so long, you dont forget their voice. Or do you? I start missplacing memories as if they were shuffled sheets of a story I never quite finished. They become scattered blocks of photographs I never got around to toss out. And whenever the possibility of someone approaching this sacred place that has grown nothing but vines and thorns, the ghosts come out. They come out laughing and dancing reminding you of how good you never had it and how good you could possibly have it if only you dared to open up. They guard this old, dusty place in mind so ferociously; as if fear and contempt were holy grails of life. You begin to overlook that you have become the only ghost still roaming around. Love can do that. The loss of it. It can strip you entirely of your identity and of your passion. It can leave you intoxicated with memories and with a different language no one else can understand. Heartbreak is different for everyone, you know. This is how the Tower of Babel originated. With broken spirits trying to compete with the Divine. Love is the only Divinity worth living and dying for. It takes a toll on everyone. It spares no one. Words can haunt you in the afterlife. Of that, I am sure of. After all, what better thing to chain someone to you forever? With words of anger and hate. With the voice that once held all the love in the world turned into the sourest screech you could possibly hear. With their absence. Their absence is the worst. That unnerving silence that can stir up the worst nightmares, the deadest of the dead, the deafest of the deaf. That silence that holds you, suffocating every last breath. And you are back in square one. You find yourself with the memories of what was and you accept it reluctantly. No one wants to admit a broken heart. But you do. I do. And we find ourselves here again. Completely corroded from the inside out.

i wish i could upload pictures but one of my cameras was stolen and the port to hook up my memory card was in the case so i apologize for the very un-olgaish lack of pictures.

for now, you are going to have to work with me. so with your mind's eyes, come with me to my home. Imagine you're walking through a sandy road with no real landmarks you are used to. at first you think everything looks the same: the palm trees, the houses, the rocks, the doors. everything seems monochrone. you get lost a couple of times while you get used to the curves and the slights of the path you will be walking on for the next three months. slowly, you begin to recognize things.

the palm tree on the left is young compared to all the other palm trees on the left. you know you have to turn left when you see the metal workers banging on the sheaths of steel ready to be molded for pots and pans. you hear the "CLING CLING CLING" of the hot piece of steel being mended by the hammer. its there you turn left and you prepare your Ewe as best as you can; local language goes a long way here. its the maternal yearning here, you know. "Wazaloo" the men say to you, to which you reply "Yooo" then the "apemetowde" and "daviwode" is exchanged to which you and they reply with a euphoric "WOFOO!" since of course you are a Yovo, a foreigner, and you have taken time to learn their local language.

After a couple of interactions here and there, with bruised french and a massacred Ewe, you start feeling safer and in a way, like you belong. they know you dont master the language, and they might actually tease you about it (which gets on your nerves after a couple of times, but c'est la vie in africa) but these people are the first ones to help you out when something goes wrong, which hardly EVER happens since such a tight community has tight security.

My house in Gbatope, with my host family, is beautiful. it looks like a ranch style homes you find near the Cape or even Middleboro. instead of a green lawn, you have perfect sand mounds that remind you of the beach when you were a kid: the softness of the grains of sand, the reddish color that when wet it almost turns to clay. I took my shoes off the first day and burried my toes in the wet sand. it had just rained. thats another thing here, the rain. the sky. the thunder and the lightening are different from anywhere else i've been. there's an ancient grumble with the thunder clasps... its almost like you can hear pieces of history through them. my ceiling, the first time it rained at 2 am, woke me up abruptly since its tin. it took me a while to realize, amidst the thick darkness that it was just rain, and that the rustle was the intense wind. i felt like dorothy must've felt in "the wizard of oz". i was tempted to hide under my bed (no, really. i was) but the idea of sharing the floor with spiders bigger than my fist was not really an option. so i stayed in bed, praying all the prayers i havent prayed in a while, and went back to sleep. it took two thunderstorms here for me to understand the noises that accompany this celestial symphony. it took about three benadryls to really zonk me out too, but thats another story for another day.

my room is nothing elegant but its MY room and my host family has gone beyond to make me feel at home. the walls are painted blue and the floor is a shiny sort of cement, i cant really explain it. i have to broom every day because of the cobwebs and the sand that sneakily finds its way into my bedroom. i have two windows which allows a nice and much needed breeze to come through around nap time, which is 12-2:30 here. i havent been acquainted with the art of napping since fucking college. i feel like a kid all over again, but with the unfortunate self awareness of an adult. self consciousness is something i deal with in america and mexico, yes, but here you're exposed.

"olga, what are those spots on your face?" my host brother asked me one day. I was sporting three phenomenal ZITS on my chin that week.

"they are zits" i said trying to contain the laughter inside of me. laughter of self-pity by the way.

"what are zits?"

"these spots" i pointed to my bad skin

"ok but why do you have them" a 14 year old can be persistant as hell

"Fooga, we're going to be here for a while" . so the subject was dropped, but i was left feeling slightly exposed. oh well.

We all live alone, individually, in different homes scattered over our village called Gbatope. Once we move to post in about three weeks from today, we will be on our own. some of us are lucky enough to have other "yovos" near by, as in 5 kms THAT WAY. the whole concept of life as we knew it has gradually and sometimes abruptly, gone out the window leaving us with nothing to comfort ourselves with but our own devices.

i.e.: masturbation, books, and music have all of a sudden become my favorite activities. not that i DIDNT do any of them before... but in africa, entertainment is rare. thank goodness for good memory and a good spank-bank.

But in all seriousness, my favorite part of the day, is twilight. there is a moment between 5 pm and 8 pm that i just grow intensely silent and observe all there is to observe. the air cools down. the sunsets, although quick, are beautiful. i wasnt really aware that the sun could be lightly carried on clouds, but here you have that illusion. greyish pink clouds carrying this little soccerball sized fire glob to its final destination for the day. then, one star. two stars. three. eleven. a MILLION specks of light covering every last inch of black mass. this is when i decide to shower. i carefully wrap myself in a panye (the colorful cloth you see on tv actually has a name!!!) and fill my bucket with water from one of the three wells in my host house.

"Olga, que tu va a mange cesoir?" my host mom asks me, from the outdoor kitchen. the kitchen is a bungaloo in open air with the fire pit in the middle. its a small pit that holds pots and warms food quicker than a quickie.

"Je voudrais annana sil vous plait" i smile at her, the darkness covers most of us but our faces. we smile at each other and her face, for a moment, dissapears in the darkness.

"Je prepare le soja avec ris" she says still hidding in the darkness. I tell her that i would love rice with the soja. delicious things that i have come to love quite quickly.

and so i walk aproximately 50 yards to my shower area. i move the bamboo door, which is unhinged, to get my bucket inside. i first flash my kalimbe (the awesome petrol lamp you see in the old western movies) to make sure no snakes are in the shower) and i move in. i lift the bamboo door again and "close" it behind me. and then, my shower begins. fresh, cold rain water gathered from the massive rainy nights prior. off comes the sweat and the grime of the day. all off with one bucket of water. i lather and smile and see fireflies.

fireflies.

this is what eases me after a long day. a smile of a child. the familiar sounds of crickets and Mama Massan cooking in the pit fire. the fireflies dancing along, making me wonder if they are fireflies or shooting stars or just my imagination. in this place, everything you have imagined africa to be, comes true and surpasses expectations too.

machetes arent scary anymore. men walking towards you arent scary. spiders and snakes arent that scary either. you start finding out that the real fear you have, is probably the fear of finding something about yourself you were hoping didnt exist.

i am confronted with the realization that i am biggest coward out there. but i still go out there and do things i normally wouldnt do. i feel fear all over me, but i do it. i might not be the stellar volunteer people dream of being, but im here. i am a perplexing mixture of abrasive nature with cautious silence. its weird what a new situation can do to you. but im happy. i wouldnt want to be anywhere else right now, at least not now.

its only training. G-d speed to us suckers. i'll tell you how i feel once im at post in about three weeks.

hopefully, i'll have more good news than shitty.

right?

It's 9 pm in Mexico City. I said good-bye to my father today as my mother and I got ready to hop on the plane. He looked handsome, my father, with his perfect suit polished to the very last trim of his blue shirt and wine-hued tie. The silk was glossy, and I remembered how I loved putting his ties around my neck when I was a kid. I always wanted to be cool like him. I wanted to be big and strong. I also wanted to wear big shoes and a suit to work. I felt powerful when my tiny feet sank deep in his shoes. I flopped all over the place when I ran as a kid, thinking that there was nothing better, nothing safer, than being in my dad's shoes. And here I stood, at 25 saying "Adiós pops! Nos veremos pronto! Te quiero" as I prepared myself to my journey's beginning.

It wasn't a sad goodbye. It wasn't tearful and there was no ache. He hugged me tight, told me he loved me, kissed my forehead and I am positive his thoughts went where I went. We went to G-d, and asked Him, with all humbleness, to keep us all safe; to bring us all back together healthy and safely. Sometimes, the hardest thing you can do is pray. Praying means you are leaving fate to something completely separate from your powers. I don't like the idea of feeling such vulnerability but hey, we are all going to die at some point. We might as well say our deeply felt "i love yous" and enjoy our journey as much as possible.

My trip to El Salvador was not without humor. In fact, it is quite predictable that you put my mother, my father, and myself in a room and something funny will happened. That is something I learned very early on in life: LAUGH. Whenever life throws you a shit-stick, laugh. Dust yourself off, get up, wonder what the hell happened if you have to, and laugh. LAUGH LAUGH LAUGH. You never know what your last sound will be. I want it to be my laughter. I can assure you, its not only contagious, but genuine. I like being happy. I like being cheerful. I fucking hate bullshit with a passion, but it happens. For example, a month ago, who would've said I would get to see my family after the swine flu scare??? Not that we go without protection:

When life gives you lemons, man, call me. I'll bring the tequila. Trust me, after the third shot, you'll be so happy and in good company that you will remember your tragedy with glee.

Moving on.

These are some beautiful pics from El Gran Salvador. I don't want to talk about how I feel about it just yet because I would have to simultaneously talk about Guatemala, which I thought I was ready to talk about, but in all honesty, I'm not quite there yet. I miss Guatemala bitterly. I really do, and that is all I can bring myself to say.

Behold, the wonders of El Salvador:

El Sunzal, Salvador. May 28th, 2009

Santa Ana, El Salvador. May 29th, 2009.

i am in El Salvador, Pictures will follow.

Also, massive update once I am in Mexico City on Monday.

I miss Boston for the first time. I miss it like a home of mine.

We all know our families.

A family is a highly dysfunctional structure with highly fucked up people that sometimes can't stand each other a lot more than they love one another. They know, with sniper's precision, which buttons to push, how to push them, and they can deliver the blow with slow agony or a quick blow. Whatever they do, I am here to tell you my family pisses me off a lot. They also make me incredibly happy and proud, but they can piss me off. I am sure as all hell that I have the same effect on them. For a fact. I'm off to Africa in 13 days and as much as I would like to leave in great terms with all my family, I have a feeling that I might not. I've already left a will to my super close friend Susan L. She will keep the original, but I will post mine here too. It's not morbid, its practical. I don't want confusion regarding what needs to be done in case something happens. Savvy?

The thing is, I'm in my room trying to pack all the shit that a person needs for two years. I'm a light packer, which is bizarre for a girl my age I guess, but I am heading to Africa, so lets be very practical here.

So far, I have packed:

* TOOTHPASTE (3 packs)

* TOOTHBRUSHES (4 of the soft bristle ones. They are AWESOME on your gums. Plus, its recommended you switch every 6 months so, four should be good).

* FLOSS (epic amounts of floss)

* MOUTHWASH (listerine also doubles as draining stuff... which drains could possibly exist in Togo is yet to be seen but you get it)

* first aid kit

* caladril lotion for those pesky bug bites.

* pillow

* sunblock

* face sunblock (not the same, I promise you this)

* deodorant

* soap/shampoo/conditioner (Africa is no excuse for shit hair)

* BUG REPELLENT

* flashlight that doubles as a weapon. I'm not messing around. I WILL HIT YOU if I have to.

* a frying pan

* mirror

* sleeping bag

* massive towel

* female pads. I know the PC provides them, but I'm a snob.

* PICTURES PICTURES PICTURES

* journals and pens. You know me quite well if you can predict whats in my purse: always a book, my journal, my camera and my iPod.

* batteries

* laptop

* camera

* incense

* minor amounts of makeup

* tennis shoes/sandals/flats

* raincoat

* PICTURES PICTURES PICTURES

* journals and pens. You know me quite well if you can predict whats in my purse: always a book, my journal, my camera and my iPod.

* batteries

* laptop

* camera

* incense

* minor amounts of makeup

* tennis shoes/sandals/flats

* raincoat

Also, good tip: If you do want to send me a care package, its advisable to keep it under 5 lbs and also write a phrase like "G-d Bless" or "G-d Loves The Believers" because apparently, guilt also works wonders in Togo like it does in our countries... MAZEL TOV on that one!!!!

sometimes I am sure that I can look at people in the eye and tell them "i dont need change".  Sometimes i even feel that nothing has been touched by change.

but, as i come to terms with it, i realize that change is one powerful mistress.  she will find you, and she will entice you with a very powerful love affair.

you are sometimes ready for this to happen, most likely, however, it just happens when you're least aware.

maybe there is such thing.

I've been battling the blues these past couple of weeks with painful songs and beautiful prose I lay my eyes upon. I try to hide behind the words that will never be written by someone like me, and get carried out by a melody that penetrates the last atom relevant to my existence. I resonate, jubilant that times like these will literally blow over. I also retreat, cautiously, into a very dark corner of my mind in which everything I hold dear is held at a very cool distance.

I wrote my aspiration statement last night for the Peace Corps. It was bizarre to witness the strange person that stared at me. See, I have the luck to compare my aspiration statement of LAST year with this one. It's been about a year since I wrote the Mozambique one and I can admit that I wasn't really into the Teaching idea. I wasn't. I didn't want to teach, I wanted to be part of the Health program, probably because I have this really idealistic vision of what that Health program is. I picture myself in a rundown hospital that stinks of chlorine and buzzes with heat and flies. I picture the walls tarnished with multiple years of hardship and the cracks in the concrete. I picture the dark stains that haunt the ceilings. It's the humidity claiming whatever it can, suffocating it with merciless wetness. I picture this because I have been in these hospitals. Of course, I am biased. Of course, I am idealistic. Of course I am basing myself in my youth years volunteering in Mexico and Guatemala.

But this is me, 2009. This is me crossing the tunnel. This is me figuring out that there is light within darkness and darkness within us. I'm still coping with all the underlaying issues that were woken up by the polarizing Titans of my life events. I look at this computer and read my words from 2008 and 2009. Sure a lot of things have kept me from really enjoy the potential idea of Togo, but it also feels very right. It almost sounds dangerous to say such a statement, but we all know that when our heart knows, it embarks in a journey we can only follow into.

I'm passionate about the dream of Togo. I'm passionate about the idea of what can become of me as a human being. If that is all there is to it, why ask for more?

It feels like college anxiety all over again:

Olgathe language is the least of my concerns. i dont know. i mean, is it reasonable to second guess yourself and ask "is this really what i want?" what if it just DOESNT click? am i forced to stay there the 2.3 years? you know what i mean??? i guess im more afraid of SUCKING at it than anything else.11:45pmJustinyou know you don't have to stayalsoI will serenade yousooo I mean11:46pmOlgathis is A TRUTH11:46pmJustinthen all your troubles will just be washed away11:46pmOlgaif i suck in togo, at least i will get a serenade. and life will make sense again! 

I am firmly trying to convince myself that Togo is going to be an awful experience. I do not know why I do this to myself, why I second guess every single thing I set to do with my life by completely deforming the concept of chance. I know I have to take a risk if I am to gain something. I'm not sure why, after spending my entire life trying to find that one thing to get me the fuck out of this comfortable spot, I am now finding a million reasons to stay.

None, however, are good enough for me to say "I'll just stay".

I know that if for some reason I panic and I decide to stay instead of going to Togo, I won't be going anywhere with the Peace Corps. If I don't give myself this chance of going and feeling things out, I am going to hate myself forever and I already have enough skeletons in the closet to dance with. I don't really need more issues than those I have. Although, I am pretty sure that new ones will join the family of bones I'm still chewing on since childhood.

I have to call my airline and figure things out about Mexico City. The truth is, if I go, and for some reason the PC says they can't take me, at least I'll be in the USA and I can figure things from here. Also, I get to see the most important people of my life, period. Sometimes, you negotiate things for love; but you never really negotiate love at all. You take it and you guard it with your life. As grateful as I am to my job for taking me back, I am not going to go back unless its to visit them. I think my time there has run its course. I think the people I bonded with are people that I know I will love for a very long time. In other words, this little center became a home away from home. Not because what I do is extraordinary. Its because the people I work with, happen to be extraordinary people. I just wished they believed me.

So this is my decision:

I'm going home. And its going to take a lot to convince me otherwise. I need to see the people I love before I embark in this unknown adventure. I at least need to rest assured I said my "I love yous" to their face.

That tiny yellow strip is Togo. That is where I will be in June 2009. If all goes well, I will be coming back August 2011 with a whole new, amazing perspective of the world. Hopefully, I'll make it through. Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIZ CHARPENTIER!!!!

im trying to figure out how on earth to make sense of everything that is going on in my life. its strange. i look at this blog and i can totally improve its look. i can, for example, put in a lovely picture of the continent of africa and point out where exactly is TOGO. however, i feel this pang of ADD hitting at any moment so instead of commiting to that mission, i instead, shuffle songs on my ipod, try to block the noises my roommate makes, and ignore completely that my fat cat is trying to get my attention.

all of this is clearly not working.

all of this is a waste of time.

im still aggravated as all fuck that im not too sure about going home. i spoke to the PC, and the girl i talk to there, jenn, is not only incredibly nice but also humane. i've been craving some sort of human connection lately. i know my friends wish me well, but its nice to know that someone in a bureaucratic position can acknowledge the fact that being in my shoes right about now SUCKS BALLS.

how the FUCK do i manage to get myself in this forsaken situations? i mean, really. am i jinxed in some way? i know that i should let go and let flow. i know that no matter what, things are going to pan out the way they have to. the illusion of control and safety are two really huge BULLSHIT LIES we tell ourselves. im not saying we should all be reckless and stupid. what i am saying is that, regardless of safety locks and the best car, and the most expensive alarm system, nothing is really going to keep you safe but your primal instint of flight or fight. and if your number is up, im sad to say it but, your number WILL BE UP.

i dont want to sound morbid, or even pessimistic, but its just... its been a long time since i felt like i never catch a break for some reason. the weirdest thing is that i dont want pity or sympathy, which is odd. when i was told i wasnt going to be allowed to go to mexico, i wanted people to pamper me left and right. i felt that much lonlier that usual. but right now, all i really want is to really be OK and accept the truth of the matter.

i guess you could say im having an epic "MOSES MOMENT". you know how he worked ALL his life to get the Jews out of Egypt into the Promised Land? And then G-d, for some mysterious reason, told Moses "No, here you cannnot come into"? Well, mine feels like that in a much lighter context. "You get to go to Africa Olga, what you have always wanted to do, but you dont get to see the people you love the most before you go".

OK. I hear you, just like I know You hear me. But that doesn't mean I understand and that doesn't mean I like it ONE bit.

Sometimes, I have a lot to say but can't find the right way to say them.

my mom insists that i document everything these days. "si no escribes, se te va a olvidar todo" she tells me with her voice. she's right: if i dont write all of what is going on this minute, i will forget it the next and misplace all the events and add to things that never really happened.

this is the truth:

the swine flu outbreak in mexico city. the racist attacks against mexicans. people at work still believing that i am a wealthy child of foreigners. the ridiculous over-reaction to this virus is quite overbearing. the peace corps will probably say "no" to me when i ask again, probably this coming monday, if i can actually head home to see my family before going to togo.

togo is in africa.

africa is nowhere near close to mexico.

flights from africa to mexico are not cheap.

let me clarify a couple of things now that we're on it:

i do not, and have not EVER come from a rich family. every penny we have had, we have worked HARD to obtain it. im proud of my working-class roots. i have never had a life of silver platter servings. i have never had things for free. what i have had, and dont regret, are two incredibly tough parents that taught me education was everything.

and they are right.

let me also clarify that just because someone looks mexican, is mexican, or has been in contact with mexicans DOES NOT MEAN they are carriers of the swine flu. get over it. its ironic that americans, who love statistics, casually forget that the flu killed aproximately 30,000 people last year in the united states alone.

so let me say this: GET THE FUCK OVER IT. take precautions, yes. follow guidance, yes. but stop being idiotic about it.

i have my moments throughout the days. i cry and i feel sad because all i want to do, is see my mom and my dad before i go. i want to see my little nephew, who is going to be 3 this october, before i leave. he wont remember me in two years. i want to see my brothers and shoot the shit with them. i want my friends and i want to walk my streets of polanco.

its really simple: imagine not seeing the people you love the most for almost 2.5 years.

yeah, unbearable isnt it?

The day was perfect.

It was sunny, a subtle breeze flowing from the east and soft clouds gently cruising the skies.  I believe that sometimes, G-d really touches the world.  You feel it as the energy shifts, creating a better rapport for your interactions.  There's a sense of lightness, of love, that you can't deny.  "Mejor, se arruina" I hear my father's voice echoing in my head as I cruise the town.  "Mejor se arruina, pops" I say with a smile on my face.

Today is worth remembering because I met little Julian and Pooka and Frida.  I hugged Tony and laughed with Dr. J.  I listened to Rose and went to the Festival of the Arts.  I saw lovely Victoria who is a success story from head to toe and I couldn't be prouder of being her friend.  I embraced Dr. Q and Dr. P, two of my most favorite professors ever. " Dr. J is a legend isn't he?" I said.  I am such a nerd.  I think professors are cooler than rockstars.  I want to be just as cool as him, just as smart and quick as Q and P.  

One day, I think softly.  One day.

Thank you for today.  Thank you for the sunset.  Thank you for the east and west, the south and the north.  Thank you for the embraces and the pictures.  Thank you for the compliments I never want to forget.  Thank you for the strength and the humbling energy.

Thank you G-d.  Thank you Universe.  Thank you Life.  

Thank you for the purity you gave me today.

I am off to Togo in June with the Peace Corps.

I'm excited and nervous and feeling highly intimidated. Everyone that's going seems to be from "top notch" schools like John Hopkins. Really???? I'm proud of my State School roots... but I can't help feel a little bit inferior to this.

What if I am not prepared like they are? What if I fail? What if I come back with my tail between my legs?

Are all of these normal fears or am I just putting too much pressure on myself?

Argh.

The smell of the coffee filters in my room. I slowly start waking up, with my three cats lazily laying in separate parts of the room. My eyes don't want to open, but the coffee is quite intoxicating and my brain is already processing the ideas of tomorrow, the concepts of the past, and the resolutions for today. My bed has a metal frame, my walls are colored a deep red with gold orange accents that make the black furniture pop. To my left, I have a relatively large bookshelf with all the books I have abused with highlighters throughout the years. In my mid-awaken state, I consider the idea of re-reading most of these books. I don't remember the last time I didn't devoured a book in less than a week. I look at my battered copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" and remember the brilliantly simple and yet profound moment that Scout remembers last seeing Boo Radley. This pang in my stomach slowly creeps in because I know its my natural response to something sad. This is my problem: books are my companions. Books become a part of me. Books are the solid configuration of the friends we all wish we had: full of wisdom, solitary in their own world, and accessible no matter what. I build forts to keep people far away from everything thats sacred. I let books come in and help me brick the fort with words and quotes. With moments that only I feel I can understand because selfishly, I think books are written just for the likes of me. They give me the physical marks of life: I read "A Year of Magical Thinking" when I was about to graduate in 2006 and Prof. Poole tried to convince me to become a literary psychologist. "Use that keen power of observation, Olga. Use it for literature". I remember reading "Charlotte's Web" when I was ten and I was yet not fluent in English, but I remember getting the fact that charlotte dies and that it was friendship and loyalty that kept her going that extra mile. Of course I didn't digest it like that. I just thought "love", "thats what love does".

Maybe I'm a little too sensitive for my own well-being. Maybe I give the wrong impression. Maybe its my fear of being approached and bruised that I keep people a book-distance away. Words can come floating to me on a bay, I won't turn my back on them. I simply can't. They have built too many memories for me. People, can come knocking on my door, particularly men, and I will simply shut down. I don't want to love back. That's too much of a commitment for me I am not willing to give. The friends I have and the friends I make, are people I am devoted to. In my mind, I have all the love I need.

And with books, I have the company I want without explaining myself to anyone. Its a shelter.

That is why when I wake up and realize that I am still in East Bridgewater, with no red walls, no actual coffee brewing, no huge bookshelf, I simply sigh and reach out for the newest addition to the collection.

With the crisp feeling of a new page and the shuffle of my fingers, I go into a world I not only find comforting, but I find therapeutic.

The world of words.

The war of words.

September 15, 2008.   I was in Mexico City getting ready for my trip to  Mozambique.  I was just starting to pack and getting used to the idea that I wouldn't be able to see my family for 27 months.  I wasn't feeling too well, so I decided to get checked out by the doctor.  You know, just in case.  Routine.  nothing out of the ordinary.

At 1 PM I showed up at the gyno's office waiting for my appointment.  I was with my friend Gigi, sister of my best friend Yves.  

"Oye, ya viste que insolente esta ese chavito?" we said whispering to each other.  Three small boys were in the waiting room with the nanny.  They were rude, noisy, and annoying.  We couldn't help it; we had to make snide remarks.  I told Gigi I was nervous about Africa, mostly because I felt that something really bad could potentially happen.  So we talked, and she told me it would all be OK, and my name was called, so I got up and went into my doctor's office.  Routine.  Standard procedure.

I don't remember much of what happened next.  All I remember was that the doctor found a massive cyst in my ovary through the ultrasound.  I think I tried to make light of the situation, but my pressure dropped and I felt I was going to pass out.  "Son aproximadamente 10 cms" he told me with his eyes set on the image, "No es nada de que bromear".  Nothing to joke about, he said.  Who would want to joke about it anyway?  10 centimeters translates into about 5-6 inches.  When you take into consideration that the ovary is the size of a pea and you are dealing with a cyst the size of a grapefruit, the size seems almost vulgar.  

So I went home.  My plans, ruined.  Did I mention I was going to Mozambique? Did I mention that I had big plans and wanted my life to be amazing? Did I fail to mention this to the doctor? Would that had changed my outcome?  I needed a second opinion.  I demanded one.  Talking to the Peace Corps was out of the question.  I was going.  No matter what.

My brother, who really is the only person that took time to sit with me and try to digest this entire crisis, took me to El Tizoncito.  He bought me a beer and some food.  He laughed with me when my usual self-deprecating humour flourished.  "I really thought you were going to tell us you were pregnant" he laughed.  I had to laugh at this too.  A baby would definitely be a more permanent situation than a cyst removal.  I tried to find the humour in all of this, I truly did.  G-d was playing a joke on me and I had to laugh.  Problem was, I wasn't finding it funny at all.  

On September 20th, 2008 I went in for my surgery.  "No sabemos si vamos a tener que remover el ovario completamente.  El otro ovario, ya demuestra que tiene quistes chiquitos.  Esto podria aftectar la fertilidad en el futuro".  That's the information I had to comprehend in 3 days.  I didn't know if it was cancer.  I didn't know if they would have to remove my ovary completely.  I didn't know if my other ovary was healthy enough for pregnancy later.  At this, I did laugh.  I laughed until tears rolled out of my eyes.  I laughed until my mom came into my room and asked me what was so funny.  I laughed and laughed and each time I gasped for air, I felt that tumor bounce up and down, straining my ovary.  I felt it juggle with anger back and forth, sending sharp pain through my lower back.  I laughed until I couldn't see the joke in it anymore because I had become the joke.  I laughed and only replied to the bewildered in my room: "I never wanted children, but I thought I'd at least have a choice."  My brother's intuition kicked in, and all he replied was "if you need to cry, just cry."

But the angry tears would not come.  Nor would the sad ones.  

See, the word "choice" has had a huge impact in my life.  I've lived my life in a way that choices have been clearly made: I chose to leave Mexico City, I chose to go to college, I chose my major.  I chose my classes, I chose to do the Peace Corps at 17.  I chose to go to Africa.  I chose I chose I chose.  All my life I have had a choice.  Here I was now, completely disfigured by my grotesque need to succeed and its equally disturbing repulsion to failure.  Doctors explained to me that there was no way of predicting this, cysts just happen.  Nothing "just happens" I wanted to yell at the doctor.  But I just held the screams inside of me and waited for the poisonous anger run through my veins and try to choke itself out in my heart.

"We regret to inform you but you will not be able to attend your assignment in Mozambique.  In the name of the Peace Corps staff, we wish you the best and we hope that you are not deterred in serving your country".  I wrote that letter in my head, thinking, that this would be what I would get sent. That letter never came.  No word ever came other than, "you will be placed in deferment until your medical papers clear".  I was adviced this could take anywhere from 6-12 months.

I braced for the worst, still without understanding what was to come.  But I silently boarded the plane on October 21st, 2008 heading back to Boston and hoping, that somehow, all of this ordeal would some day, make sense.

Sometimes in this bizarre thing called LIFE, certain things happen to us that makes us either cry in frustration, throw the towel in defeat, or make us stop dead on our tracks. I can honestly admit that I have experienced all of them a million times, some more often than others.

I have finally, after 6 months of agonizing dread, heard back from the PEACE CORPS regarding my placement. I do not want to release many details right now, because it is still being talked about with the placement office, but...

if it is what I honestly think it is they are offering me, I would be fucking stupid to turn it down.

I think I get it.

The internet offers us something that for centuries, even tracing back to Biblical Times, humans have yearned for.

Its a mediocre fountain of youth that also promises you a morbid sense of immortality.

Think about it: if something happened to me today, no one would delete this. Everyone would see my final words. Everyone would check my facebook status to see what I was doing on those last hours of my life. They will imagine what it would've been like to see me one more time.

And like frozen time, my pictures will stay up: happier times. They will think "what a happy person, what a tragedy".

I know this because I've done it. I think the internet enhances our bullshit, and here I am. Commenting on how bullshit it is to feed into this apocalyptic bullshit.

I think it's really funny to find myself in yet another cyber-microcosmos. Am I the only one that thinks the world is getting a little smaller? I mean really. A friend of a friend of a friend who knows my friend in Mexico added me the other day. This person has no concept of who I am other than what he sees online. It's weird that we have to reiterate the fact that WHAT YOU SEE ONLINE IS ONLY A MINOR DETAIL TO THE ACTUAL PERSON. Are we even people anymore? No, seriously. Are we PEOPLE or are we becoming cyber concepts? I can tell you bullshit lies about myself on the internet and you'd believe me because if its on facebook and myspace, then it must be absolute truth. I cannot recall where this fascination with this cyber concept. Wait, I think I do... It all initiated with ICQ when I was about 15 and the chats with friends after school were endless. "Did you see how Paul looked at me from across the lunch room?" I'd ask my friend Hanna, who required powerful glasses to squint at this Paul character. We chatted, of course, hypothesised and even concluded that Paul was too shy to talk to me. Of course, this was all cyber talk with a cyber personality with a cyber connection that transcended into real world. The next day in school, Hanna and I spoke about the videos and songs we had downloaded on the computer.

At 25 I am pretty much in the same position. I started with myspace, then slowly crept into the world of facebook. Or perhaps, it was the other way around. Maybe facebook found a way to creep into my life. In the most positive case scenario, you decide to join in. Worst case scenario, joining a cyber social scene is almost as intense as dealing with high school bullying and peer pressure.

And this is the curious thing: I am completely OK with sharing my life online. I am OK with people looking at how happy I look in my pictures or what a huge zit I got. I'm OK with it because I can filter who can see it, who can't and when to show it and how to present it. In other words, I seriously think that we are all performing on a huge cyber stage. I think we all want to seem happier than what we really feel, we want to look better than what we really do, and we definitely want people to leave comments just to prove someone out there, is indeed thinking about us. Truth is, if we really think about it, we aren't really letting people come to us and think about us. What we're really doing is forcing ourselves unto everyone's enviornment. We update with trivial things. We post pictures of every weekend. We change our profile pictures, change our interests to make us more appealing to someone we fancy, we omit the people that can embarrass us, etc. We were given the utter control of our fake lives.

By no means am I attacking this fake world. I'm just cautiously reminding myself and everyone who will stumble upon this that we have a real world to be held accountable for. The shit you think will never get to "that" friend, will. The awkward pictures of your childhood will somehow get tagged by some old, creepy family member that is definitely waaaaay too old to even know what facebook is. The pictures will be dissected to the extent that people will be convinced you were photoshopped or you might even get accused of airbrushing yourself. Really?

I mean, really? Why is it that lately, I find myself online rather than onLIFE. I somehow feel like I have wasted endless hours on this computer looking at nothing (no offense to all my pretty friends that I stare at for endless hours). I've always been a reader and a puzzle fanatic. I can't tell you the last time I completed a puzzle. I've definitely read, but not without struggling the first 30 minutes with "I wonder if X commented on Y already".

PATHETIC.

I don't want this to be my life. Do you? Do any of us?