Wow, It has been a very long time since I have posted anything here. I have been too obsorbed with my own life to sit in front of a computer to write anything.

I am not really going to post too much right now because I have decided to put in some time with personal emails. Look forward to getting one soon. If you don't send me one and I promise to write back.

Just a quick update:

My birthday: Turning 30 rocks! I threw myself an enormous party with DJs and four enormous speakers. Peace Corps chastized me for throwing a frat party. Can you imagine!

I just finished my first Semester of teaching, which went well! My Creole is getting to be conversational, which is nice.

Everyone thinks I'm either Portuguese or Chinese. I will have to explain the Chinese part later.

Erin and Betsy send me hair products from the states, which should make them canonized saints in my book.

Janece faithfully sends me letters in the mail.

I am running out of time right now, but will post more after I catch up on my personal correspondence.

Last weekend I went to Pedro Bedajo, a fishing village on the East coast of the island, to visit my friend Jonah. We sat on his roof with a panoramic view of the ocean, sipped whiskey, and decided that certain cloud formations were mutating faces bending low to eat us. It was quite fun. I didn’t get to explore too much because he had to come to Praia early the next day for a volunteerism rally in Praia, but I did enjoy some yummy grilled street chicken. I also enjoyed sharing a ride back to Praia with a local Capoeira group going to the rally. His town has winding roads with quaintish colonial structures, the roofs are tiled. It is sleepy and close, unlike Praia— a welcome break from the city. I also had not one but two much needed laughs.

As we were finishing our chicken, we looked to our left to see three American men exiting a store. We knew they were unquestionably American in the way husky white men with loose fitting jeans, short shorn hair, baseball caps, and Old Navy t-shirt can only be Americans. We knew they were American in the way that people who never see other Americans beside Peace Corps Volunteer and the occasional other white meat (aka Mormons) know when they see their own. “Lets follow them,” I throw my chicken bone to the street dog and stand up. Jonah is game. As we are trailing them up the street, I give a, “pseeeeouy”. This is one of the non-verbal sounds I am daily harassed with by the men in Praia. It is decidedly less lecherous than the standard, “hisssssssssssss”. You simply do not respond to the later. The former, however, can be used in a variety of situations including simply getting your friends attention.

Who are these men? Why the hell are they in Pedro Bedajo? Americans simply do not visit Cape Verde, much less small fishing villages. “Pseeeeoouuuy,” I repeat myself several times. Ignoring me, they push forward. I know this trick well; ignorant denial is my personal favorite response. But, I have also been trained by the most persistent men on earth and will not desist. When the men stop at a house and join about seven more of the same breed, I realize that I will have to walk past them. I really haven’t considered the consequences of my harassment. I am simply enjoying the reversal of roles.

“Are you Americans? Do you speak English? We heard you hissing at us?” The youngest in the group stops us as we try to walk by. Ooooops. Sorry I say. I was just having a little fun? Why do I act like such an idiot. They introduce themselves as a missionary group that comes to Cape Verde once a year to work on a school they are building. How lovely I say. I pass on the offer to get together over a coke. I have to get back to Praia, but surely Jonah will want to hang out with them later in the week. I don’t think they had spoken to an English speaking female in over a month, certainly not one that was hissing at them.

Later that night, in Jonah’s enormous house without furniture (although I must commend the shelving constructed out of floor tiling boxes), as I proceed to the kitchen to get more to drink, I see one of our wonderful inch long Cape Verdean cockroaches. I call Jonah into the room to take care of the situation, half expecting him to tell me that he won't eat too much. I have already told you that I live in one of the nices houses of all of the volunteers in CV, and I do not suffer from roaches in my apartment. We do, however, have problems with the bloodhound ants that smell out and eat anything, including human flesh. I have two burning bites on my arm that are swelled to the size of plums at the very moment. While the roaches are disgusting the ants are the more dreadful enemy.

Jonah leaves the room and return with a broom. I watch with interest as he slams the roach into the wall with one forecful stroke of the broom. The hockey-puck roach lies flat on its back, legs motionless in the air. Impressive. Jonah then sweeps the roach into the hallway. "I have an agreement with the ants. I leave them food in the hall and they stay out of my bedroom. In the morning only the shell of the roach will be there. With spiders, they eat the entire body and leave the legs." Well, goshdarn.

Oh, one more funny. We go to his neighbor's house, whom he pays to cook his meals. Only the teen-age boys are home to serve us. The older one tells Jonah in Creole that I am pretty. Jonah's responds with and obliging, "I know". Of course this is all very flattering, but I realize what Jonah has said after the boys begin to giggle in that way teen-age boys giggle when someone says anything remotely related to sex. Jonah has accidently used the know verb that means to be familiar with in terms of my body instead of the know verb that means to know something in your head. Very funny. I guess I deserve this after hissing at strange missionary men on the street.

Cape Verdeans, like most Africans, are proficient in the art of dance. They have several different types of dance and they aren't afraid to move in front of anyone, anywhere, anytime, as frequently as possible. I am certain that the women have an extra muscle in the hips/ass that equips them to move in the most astonishing fashion.

My first experience with Cape Verdean dance was a demonstration of the Funana and Batuk by some girl in Sao Domingos during training. They turned on the music and simply began to move. Funana. Just a simple step to the beat, alternating steps, the gently swaying of arms. I got the basic move immediatedly, but was immediately schooled by the children aged six, eight, and twelve. There was more stepping and hip movements and then hips girations and pelvic thrusting, and down on all fours, and more hip movement in simulation of the unmentionable act and ohmygod these children are moving like strippers and holy shit I wish I could move like that but ohmygod none of these girls have even hit puberty. The guys from our group became noticable disturbed. Their joint expression: I don't think we should be watching this. The faces of the veteran volunteers, Oh just you wait.

Then came the Batuk, which is one of my favorite parts of Cape Verdean culture. It is the most African of the dances performed here and Cape Verde is famous for this dance performed by women who gather seated in a circle. They each beat a drum or more frequently when they do not have a drum they stick their purse or something else between their knees and pound on that. One woman will enter the circle. The beat begins slowly as the it comes together and the woman in the middle will begin stepping and swaying her arms. She wears a pano cloth around her hips to accentuat the movement of the Batuk. One woman will begin the chant and the others will respond. The songs are composed by the women and involve social themes affecting their lives. As the singers and drummers fall into rythm the pace and intensity of the drums will increase. The dancer will start to move her hips faster, each movment of the hips will be accented by an upward leap of one side of her ass. It seems they actually lift one side of the bum over their waistline. The woman begins to shift her weight with increasingly rapid movments, hips and ass more than keep pace. Then, percussionists begin to lift their arms in the air, bringing them down with forca, all you hear is the pounding of arms. The dancer will cease to more her arms. Often one hand will rest on her forehead as she concentrates on the movement of hips and ass; it is not unlikely that she will look up and actually roll her eyes into her head while moving her midsection with ferocious precision. The upper portion of the body remains static; I have seen some women balance a jug of water on her head while performing the dance. When the song is over the dancer will remove her pano cloth and drape it over the shoulders of the next person to dance.

One night during training we had a cross cultural dinner with Batuk afterward. All of the new volunteers and host families were joined around the circle to watch the local women Batuk. Then they began throwing the cloth around the necks of the new volunteers. I retreat to the staircase to avoid the humiliation. The children from my neighborhood began to yell my name. Jessica, baidja, jessica. The pano is thrown toward the banister and I instictively catch it. Into the circle with Jessica. I'll leave that scene to your imagination.

There is another form of dance as well that involves some serious hip action, the Pasada. This dance, however, requires a partner. The beat is a simple one-two that is interupted by your partner swinging you around. It is really rather simple if you aren't too shy to slam your pelvis against a complete stranger, or a friend for that matter. At our first concert Sara described this dance to me as simple, "rubbing your stuff together with dancing". She was referring to the cola portion of the dance. This is an option exercised in the city or with your boyfriend, less so in the country. The stepping stops and you just sort of grind your hips together. Scandalous! My first attempt was at a club in Assomada. The men were literally pulling us onto the dance floor and refusing to retreat after the dances were complete, but that's another story. The disturbo part of this dance is that men (usually strangers) often become excited during the dance, and then you must suffer through the dance with an erection between you and your partner. This particular night my partner was rather tall and I had the pleasure of feeling his member on my ribcage for the entire dance.

Last weekend the Pasada came back to haunt me. One of my colleages, a former PC volunteer, got married to a Cape Verdean last weekend. Our students threw a party for her and of course I was invited since I cancelled class for them. It was a nice little party in the afternoon with some games for the bride and groom. Very nice, very simple. Then comes the ubiquitous music and dancing. Jandira, the life of every party, begins to move and the dancing ensues. One of the guys grabs Deanna's sister from American, and begins to teacher.

One of my students approaches me, "will you dance?"

"No, I'm sorry, I am very shy," Super lamo I know, but I really cannot deal with a boner-pelvic rub from one of my students.

Another student, "Teacher, will you dance?"

"Not right now, thanks" Ok, I must retreat. Into the kitchen looks safe. Only women in there; they will hide me. But alas, they block my way and push me towards another student who has persued me. Caetano, who really is very adorable, takes both of my hands.

"Teacher, we do not have shame when you are teaching us about things we do not know. We learn from you when you teach us literature. You should not have shame to learn about our Cape Verdean dancing." I literally hang my head and allowed him to lead me in a dance, where I am given a very respectful lesson in Pasada sans boner.

Oh, but do not despair at my inability to integrate. Last Saturday night was Deanna's wedding, and Jessica loves her a good wedding. After lots of wine and dancing at the wedding, we wemt to the buat (french for nightclub) and there I proceeded to allow men to lead me on the dance floor. I pasada-ed, I even cola-ed. Nasty-Scandalous! I was told that I learned very fast. It was so much fun! N ta prendi faxi (I am learning fast).

I must apologize to you my dear readers. My stories of life in Cape Verde have been few, violent, and rather negative. I am in fact in the section of the Peace Corps which people refer to as the Posh Corps, and while we (Cape Verde Peace Corps Volunteers) chafe under this description my life here is pleasant in many ways.

My apartment is nicer than anywhere I have lived State Side. It occupies the third floor of an office building in a central location of downtown Praia. There are two balconies each with a wonderful set of French doors. One runs the length of the backside of the apartment and overlooks the neighborhood behind us. The breeze is pleasant in the evenings.

The other balcony is hard to describe. I just stared at it with my mouth open when I first saw it. Others do the same. It is HUGE, about the size of a small restaurant or large swimming pool.

Hot water runs from the shower in the pure ecstasy of cleanliness that will last until the moment you walk out the front door. Few people have running water in Cape Verde. Those who do rarely experience that water with heat or pressure. The water pressure at my home-stay was so weak that I opted for the bucket placed between my legs as I sat in the bathtub and spooned cups of cold water over my body. When I felt extra dirty, I would boil water and add it to the bucket. During the tedium of training, I found myself rubbing the skin of my arm to watch the rolls of dead skin and dirt flake off -- endless fascination.

It is not uncommon for the electricty to go off, and when this happens we also loose water. These are the times when I rememer that I am living in Africa. We keep bottles of water on hand for those times when water does not come out of the faucet. I can wash a sink full of dishes with one liter of water.

The dirt in Cape Verde is as problematic as the water. They are conversely proportionate. It is a quasi desert after all. Lets say that you begin the day with an immaculately clean tile floor. It is so clean, you would allow your infant child to slide his pink tongue along the surface. Now take that same floor late in the afternoon and push a broom along the surface. You will, without exaggeration, be able to fill at least one coffee cup with the dirt. If you happen to spill water on the floor it turns instantly to mud. I had assumed OCD ran on the female side of my host-family because the sweeping and dusting was happening two and three times a day. The house was always so clean; I didn’t realize the pervasive extent of Cape Verdean dirt. Now that I have my own place, I know just how much dirt is in the air.

But, and this is the posh side of the dirt story, we have an empragada. She comes three times a week, cleans the entire house, and washes all of our clothes by hand. The Peace Corps gives us money as part of our living allowance to employ such a person. At first I was having this guilt about being in the PC and living in such a nice place with a person coming to my house to wash my underwear by hand. It makes me feel uncomfortable. When I realized that the 19 year old Fatima really needs this job, and that she is using the money to pay for her computer class, I allowed myself to rationalize away the feelings of guilt. The money is going back into an economy that has a fairly high unemployment rate, and Fatima did come knocking on our door asking for the job.

I also have the access to several beaches and the embassy pool, where I went today to swim laps with some other volunteers and to work on my tan, which is coming along nicely. On friday nights I often meet with other volunteers to watch a film at one of the two theatres in town. I also have access to to the largest selection of goods than anyone else in Cape Verde. The largest grocery store in the country is walking distance to my house. I can get things like oatmeal, almonds, honey from Portugal, and the alchohol selection is definetly passable. There are a couple of good restaurants and several buats or nightclubs. (I need to write an entire post about the dancing here, but we’ll save that) All in all, not too shabby.

Sao Domingos with some local women. This is a bridge I would walk everyday on my way to school.

These are my high school students from Sao Domingos. We held a model school with them for one week, and at the end each class had to perform. The girls are singing "Respect" by Ms. Franklin with boys on backup. It was one of the most gratifying experiences I have ever had with students.

This monkey lived at the house of one of the other volunteers. His family owned a bar, which we named the Monkey Bar after this little guy. We were never sure if they planned to eat the poor fellow or not.

My host sister and firebrand for all of Sao Domingos. A very special person.

Carla and my host-cousin Ceila. Carla usually cooked and cleaned, but Ceila would pinch hit if Carla was out of town on a church function. Ceila is also the best hair braider in the family. She braided my hair several times as well.

My host niece, Nadia, stayed with us for one week. She was very sweet. She used to sit on my lap, starring at me and pinching the skin on my arm. I think she thought it was a funny color.

Larrisa (right) and Danielle (left) lived in my neighborhood in Sao Domingos. Larissa would call my name everyday on my way to and from training. This is one of my favorite pictures of the children in Sao Domingos.

Part of our training involved "shadowing" a volunteer. My group went to Assomada, a town located in the center of the island. The view was beautiful. I took this shot especially to avoid the trash, which is everywhere.

A typical Cape Verdean woman carrying a heavy load on her head in downtown Assomada. It is an amazing thing to see the massive loads these women are able to accommodate; if you watch closely you can see the slight adjustments they make with their necks. Women and girls carry the weight in this country. Younger boys can be seen carrying a load in this manner, but once males reach a certain age it becomes emasculating to carry anything on their head.

Freshly butchered cow hanging from the tree in Assomada. Delicious I'm sure. A cow's head is much larger than you might expect.

This is the market in Assomada, one of the more typical "African" style markets you will find on the island.

Sorry to have jumped off the page. Besides the fact that I needed to put a disclaimer and on my blog, there are two major reasons for my lack of communication. Let me explain.

Living with a family in a small village where everyone knows your shit, and you eat things that you never EVER thought you would, where personal space is a non-existent commodity, where people think you are incapable of the most basic tasks, and where you gain almost 1 pound per week because you don’t know how to say no to your family’s hospitality, and where the heat inside your house is at least 10 degrees hotter than outside because your family keeps all of the doors and windows closed against the swarming of flies, which you kind of understand when you are trying to eat, but you really and truly do not understand when you are trying to sleep in your box of a room without ventilation of any kind (the lack of ventilation was especially uncomfortable when the electricity went out because then I could not use the fan in my room) made it impossible for me to write. I just wanted a bottle of the horrible beer imported from Portugal and a game of cards at the local bar, where I felt the immediate harlot for drinking and smoking in public (alcohol, cigarettes, and cards to do not constitute acceptable behavior for proper Cape Verdian women). Yes, homestay was getting to me although I can honestly say that I had one of the best host-families. It was also getting to my 25 plus compadres, with whom I attended class eight hours per day, and who were also having similar feelings about their homestays. Let’s suffice to say the atmosphere was “testy”.

Secondly, and I deliberated about sharing this because it was kind of intense and I didn’t want my friends to worry, but I’ve realized that not telling was giving me writers block, and we all know that that is really, really bad. So here goes…

It all happened the night of “Swearing In”, the official PC ceremony where you take an oath to defend the Constitution in such a way that you wonder if you are not in fact joining a secret sect of the Marines, where search and destroy is more important than peace and development. Until swearing-in you are a “trainee” and not yet a “volunteer”. If the PC does not find your language acquisition, your attitude, your teaching ability, or your ability to follow the rules adequate they can send you back to America. Once your swear-in, however, you become a bonified volunteer, and this means you are days away from shopping for yourself, cooking for yourself, eating what you want when you want, and keeping your own bloody hours without informing your host-family.

Ok, so the night of this swearing in happened to coincide with the São Domingos festa. To understand this festival, think block party on the main road through the village. People were drinking openly in the crowded street, women were selling cooked meat and prepared sweets by the side of the road, and overplayed Cape Verdian pop was filing the air. It was a strange atmosphere to say the least because by 2:00 in the morning when we decided to go home the town was still going off. At 10:00 pm São Domingos might still have a few men hanging out in the bar or some young men sitting on a wall, talking and laughing, but never anything like this. Cars were lining the streets and hiaces were still bringing people in and out of town. People had come from all over the island and other islands as well. São Domingos was in the house.

We were hanging out in one of our favorite bars when one of the guys who has been here for two years came back from walking one of my other friends to her house just around the corner. He told us that two guys accosted them with a knife and demanded money while holding the knife to his solar plexus. They told these guys they didn’t have anything, emptied their bags to show them, and then they told them to get lost. She went into her house, and he came back, rather annoyed, to have another beer and to tell us the story.

Taking my cue, I joined some of my friends who were walking home. There were six of us. On the way, a drunk guy fell backwards off a wall and landed on his head about 20 feet down. People came running to help and began to try to move him and make him walk. The night was feeling strange.

As we were walking down the cobblestone street away from the crowd and toward the turn off to my house, Adi and I fell behind the pack. After we made the turn, I noticed some guys walking behind us. There were three of them. We walked on a bit more and I noticed they were closer. As I was just warning her of my slight suspicion, I was grabbed from behind. It was the sort of gentle embrace around my shoulders and I thought it was one of my São Domingan friends playing “guess-who”. Then I felt hands searching for my bag, which I was wearing over the shoulder. I did this drop and twist maneuver to get away from the tightening grasp, spun to face him, and dug my heals in. Then, we played this little game of tug-o-war for the bag. The strap broke and I fell to the ground clutching the bag. Did I mention my nemesis is a rather well built chap who stands at least 6 feet tall? Well, he gets stuck with the short end of the strap. I don’t think he appreciated the fact that I still wouldn’t relent the purse so he began to kick me, repeatedly. He was doing that thing were you plant one leg and swing the kicking leg back to get sufficient momentum for impact. I was doing the thing were you protect your face and vitals by curling up in fetal position (most impressive). We continue this act for some time.

According to my friends, because I couldn’t really see what was going on at this point and I was really very focused on not giving up the bag, at one point there were two guys assaulting me. I do remember hearing Deanna screaming “fucking ass-holes” over and over. Apparently she was hitting them with her umbrella, which disintegrated in her hands (Mary Poppins style), and Adi was hitting them over the back with an unbroken beer bottle, but I don’t think either of them were effective, however well intentioned. Finally Jay, the only guy in the group, gets to us (they were walking way ahead) and gets both guys off of me. This is most impressive because I think I have about 10 pounds on Jay.

Adi and Deanna cover me with their bodies, but I just want to get off the ground at this point, which I do, assuring them that I am uninjured. I feel like the incident should be over at this juncture, but the men begin to pick up rocks. The big guy is pointing at me and yelling, “she”, “bag”, “she”. I am the object of their attention. Did I mention that I still have my bag? I hear Jay yell, “Jessica run.” This was in fact very good advice, which I heeded post haste. I realized that I either needed to relinquish the bag or get the hell out of there. I felt guilty for running and leaving my friends.

I had to run up this huge hill to my house, and I felt like the bad guys were right behind me. My flip-flops kept slipping off my feet. I got to my house and woke up my host mother and sister. I was panting so hard I couldn’t speak. The others caught up with me. It seems they continued threatening my friends with rocks, and then they all began to run towards my house. They caught Jay, pinned him to the ground, and demanded his wallet. He wouldn’t give until they held a rock over his face. After he produced the wallet they dropped the rock on his face anyway.

Jay walked away with a scratch on his nose and I had bruises on my legs and arms. We were very lucky; end of story; welcome to the Peace Corps.

The next day I moved to my site in Praia. I have been here about a month. It has taken me some time to adjust to this city. I was super sketched for a while, looking over my shoulder all the time. I’ve never traveled anywhere where I stand out so much. The people who jumped us were probably from here, and that type of theft happens here. It is intimidating. If I follow certain precautions, such as not carrying bags at night, I shouldn’t have any problems. My room-mate has been here a year without trouble. I was kind of being a dolt by carrying my bag at night during a festival, but I didn’t know it was going to be like that.

Writing this all down has made me feel better and sharing it is making me feel less disconnected. I wasn’t able to post things about my life and leave this out, but I did't want you gorgeous people to worry about me. It just wasn’t working. So here it is and please, please don't worry. I’m pretty much chilled out now and will be informing you of all the positive things happening in my life, including my stunning apartment, my kick-ass job, and quirky adventures. More frequent posts to come...

Perhaps the most interesting statement that came out of the US Ambassador’s mouth as he welcomed us to our service in Cape Verde was his description of the country as “Africa lite Carribean plus”. Well, that and his mandate that we are to remain neutral during the impending election and we are to promote the values of democracy. Oh, and he did tell us about his work to bring CV into the WTO, which seemed way more important to him than the education system that is in crisis. But, I digress.

When I chose Africa as preferred region of service, my imagination produced nothing resembling CV. I saw a mud hut in West Africa with traditional dress, body art, dancing around fires, and lots of drums. Or as another possibility, Southern Africa with that huge umbrella tree standing on the savannah, and if you look closely there is a she-lion in the grass beneath the tree. And of course, I was hoping for beaches.

The other volunteers feel the same way; this is not what we expected. In fact, none of us had heard of this country before we were given our assignments. Cape Verde literally means “the green cape”, but it was named for the cape on the mainland, and even the Cape-Verdeans laugh at the misnomer. Cape Verde is usually brown, dry, and dusty. I can mostly tell you about the main island of Santiago at this point because I haven’t had the opportunity to visit the others. It is a young country. No on lived here before the Portuguese colonized the islands and brought Africans from the mainland. The country is both African and European. The women carry 10 gallon containers of water on their heads without the use of hands, and at the same time make sure they are home to watch the Brazilian soap opera in Portuguese on the T.V. I was going to post some images, but I'm having some difficulty uploading, and am running out of time. More to come!

There is a saying in Kriolu that translates to something like, “Between a man and a woman, do not put the spoon”. It is an idiomatic expression that demonstrates the cultural norm of not interfering in other people’s domestic relationships. We learned the phrase during one of our weekly cultural training sessions; it was used to demonstrate a point about our safety and domestic violence in Cape Verde.

Peace Corps policy stresses that we not get involved in potentially dangerous situations, such as domestic violence. Domestic violence is a common occurrence here, and our interference could make the situation worse because we do not, especially at this point, know the people or understand the situations, nor are there institutionalized support systems for victims of domestic violence. If we want to get involved, then prevention and education is the space for our involvement—or so goes the party line.

Today, a child of about 12 years old runs into the bar where a bunch of trainees are having a beer. She is crying and terrified. An adult male follows her into the bar holding his belt in his right hand. The girl ran behind Maria Antonia, the bar tender, who tries to shelter her from the man. At this point, I’m sure Maria Antonia is going to stop the man, but she isn’t able.

There are about ten of us trainees and two volunteers, one of witch lives in Sao Domingos. He tells us the girl is very poor and that the man chasing her is not her father. He says in his characteristically monotone way, “he is going to beat the shit out of her”. The man grabbed the girl’s arm and pulls her from behind Maria Antonia, strapping her with the belt across her head and down her back. He brings the belt down with all his strength, twice. Then she breaks free, and runs crying down the street. One of the veteran volunteers, who lives in an extreme rural location and apparently sees this everyday says, “this is your example of domestic violence in Cape Verde”. The man follows the girl on his bike with belt in hand. Someone says, “She better run faster than that.” I watch from an increasing distance as he landed a couple more blows. Then, I turned to walk the other direction down the street, cradling a stone in my stomach.

I told my host sister what happened when I arrived home. She asked me who was involved, but I did not know the names. She listens to my story, shrugs her shoulders and says in Kriolu, “in Cape Verde this is normal.”

The day after I saw the girl’s lashing at the monkey bar, I encountered her again in passing. I am entering the mini-mercado and she is exiting with some other children. There is genuine laughter on her face, we make solid eye contact, exchange smiles, and I feel something like guilty relief. Casey, who also witnessed the incident, says, “at least she seems happy today.” The lack of visible signs of the beating makes me hopeful that there aren’t hidden marks as well.

I haven’t bean able to process my reaction to the situation. One of us should have taken the belt out of the man’s hand. Less than half of our group could have overpowered the man. I am finding it unacceptable that I stood and watched a grown man beat a child half his size. I understand the logic behind the policy not to interfere. Worse case scenario is that the man becomes angrier because of the public intervention, and the girl is beaten worse at his next opportunity. I found out later that she doesn’t have a father, and the man beating her was her cousin. She, of course has no source of support within the community to protect her. I can follow the logic here, but I cannot help but feel the policy is mostly intended to protect me and keep my medical bill low. The best case scenario is that the man is prevented from hurting the girl in the moment, he has time to chill out, and the girl is spared the physical beating and public humiliation. I cannot know which outcome would have been more likely.

I spoke with some veteran volunteers about the scene at the Monkey Bar. They convinced me that because of my low language proficiency and lack of experience with the community, my actions, or lack thereof, were actually in the child’s best interest. Their arguments did make me feel better for her sake, but I’m still not sure about my motivation. Even though we have formed a logical argument that allows the child to be beaten in her own best interest, I’m not sure that I ran any of those arguments through my brain in a methodical way before deciding to stand aside and watch the event take place. I hate to admit that I just froze. I’m not certain that I decided anything at all.

Although I have crossed paths with the girl several times and always greet her with a hearty, “tudu fixi”, she doesn’t usually respond with the same enthusiasm that the other children lavish on the “white people” as they call us. One day, she was walking beside me on the way to the school building.

“Tudu dretu?” I ask. (Is everything good?)

She responds with a timid, “sim.” (yes)

“Modi ki bu txoma?” I ask for her name.

“Sue,” she replies.

“N txoma Jessica” I give her my name.

She takes a path that forks away from the main road, and I call after her, “ti logu”(until later).

I wonder if she remembers that I stood there while her cousin beat her ass with a belt. Does she know that I feel guilty? Is she embarrassed? Did it seem normal to her? How often does this happen to her? Is she already over it while I’m still writing out my guilt?

I’ve seen her around the school building a few times since. I speak with her in my limited Kriolu. I tell her she is pretty. Upon request, I take pictures of her and her friends. They strike poses and smile, and then run to inspect their images on the screen of my camera.

The village I am living in is called San Domingos, and it is very small. I will be here until the middle of September when I go to site, but right now I am going to class 8 hours a day and living with a Cape Verdean family. Classes include 2-4 hours of Kriolu for the first 4 weeks, then Portuguese for the next 4 weeks, culture classes, health classes, and other training. I now know that I will be teaching literature at the Teachers college in the capital. This makes me happy. There is no internet in the town, and it is absolutely obligatory to say hello to everyone as you pass them on the street. Walking from point A to point B obviously takes longer than it would in America.

We have already determined that everyone is either related by blood or marriage, and word travels faster than speeding bullets. For example, my family knows that one of my fellow volunteers hasn't had a solid bowel movement in 10 days, and they choose to refer to her in that manner instead of by her name, which is only two syllables.

The town itself is devastatingly beautiful. Beautiful for the fact that it is situated amongst brown mountains that touch the mist in the morning and stand guard against the sun as it rises and sets each day. Devastating for the trash that is bestowed upon it without hesitation. The trash, in fact, has been the most difficult thing about Cape Verde so far. It is everywhere that people are, and the most responsible people seem to burn their trash instead of throwing it out willy nilly. I'm not sure which is worse. Sunday, my host mother used platic bags to kindle the fire that she cooked our dinner on. I watched in amazement as I sidestepped the black, toxic cloud that floated in my direction. I have already learned to bite my tongue and choose my battles.

My new family is comprised of a Mother, formally known as Luisa and informally known as Dudu or Tia, a father, called Kaka, a sister, named Carla, and a brother, Carleus. The parents aren't married, as is common in Cape Verde. For some reason, I haven't as yet identified, marriage is a difficult state to attain. Although what we understand as a common law marriage is just as accepted as an actual marriage doesn't seem to conflict with the degree to which these people practice Catholicism. Somehow this contradiction is negotiated and it is directly related to 500 years of subjugation by the Portuguese. I will keep you posted as I sort through this particular paradox.

Tia is quiet, but extremely kind. Although, Cape Verdeans generally do not understand personal space, and generally interpret being alone as anti-social behavior, she doesn't seemed phased by me going into my room and closing the door to read, study, or listen to music. Other volunteers have much more involved families. Kaka, the father, is a more elusive figure that I don't interact with too much. We seem to be served breakfast at the same time, and I think he has propositioned me to take him to America, but my Kriolu is not good enough to be certain. He makes me a little uneasy and I tend to avoid him. I'm not sure if the irony of the parents names has escaped you, but let me just point out for good measure that their names or Dudu and Kaka.

My host brother is 15 years old and awkward in the ways one might expect. He tends to eat in front of the T.V. and he says little, although we exchange terse nods of the head to indicate general acceptance and acknowledgment of one another.

My host sister holds the silver lining of my home-stay experience. Carla is extremely intelligent, and 'confidanti' in Kriolu, which indicates a blend of confidence and cockiness that I more than appreciate. She cooks 75% of my meals, which are all delicious, and she knows how to take as much shit as she is able to give out; we have developed an equal exchange in this arena. My first week of language class, I learned to call her a 'pediglau' or spur on the roosters foot. After that I became fair game. She taunts me with false phone calls from 'Merka' and laughs at me constantly. I already love her. She hopes to get a scholarship to Portugal to study photography. I can't imagine what will become of her if she doesn't realize this dream.

I am currently at an internet cafe in Tarrafal, a beach town on the north side of the island. It is my first excursion by myself, without Peace Corps domination. I am already feeling like a government employee in lots of ways and cannot wait to get to my site and actually start my job. I have to run, but more to come I promise.

You might be asking yourself where has she been?, and why hasn´t she posted? Well here are some of the anwers you have been whitening your knuckles to hear.

My group was delayed in Dakar for several days because the Cape Verdean national airlines wasn`t flying that week?? We were in Dakar for two nights, and that Jessica gets to be a team leader stuff ended up being both necessary and somewhat of a drag.

Dakar:

The most intense place I have ever placed my feet. We got to the airport and several things struck me immediately. People were staring really hard at me. People were staring really hard at my luggage. With less than 10 minutes on the continent I had at least an equal number of mosquito bites, and the people have absolutely no concept of personal space. I gave a banana from JFK to a begging child to split with his compandre. It was consumed post haste while my PC counterparts commented that I shouldn`t have brought produce into the country. I say, well its gone now.

We stayed at the Peace Corps flophouse for the day while phone calls were made to decide what to do with us. I went for a walk with Casey, new friend #1, on the steets of Dakar. Unfortunatley, no pics were had because I wasn`t sure about getting the camera stolen. Dakar is flat, hot, dusty, and absolutely littered with trash. I cannot say that it was aesthetically pleasing in the least. We were looking for a place to eat, and were waved over by a woman sitting beneath a makeshift structure draped with cloth to shade the sun and the dusty wind. We sat on the makeshift bench beneath the cloth and mimed with the woman. She showed us bread and some cooked beans. We nodded yes, we want some of this food. She smiles back at us and keeps showing us the food. We are really hungry and she finally puts a load of the beans on the baguette style bread, and we chomp down. The food was very good. Our meal took place adjacent to a small stucture that seemed to be bookie central. Men were crouded behind it facing some sort of chart. We gathered some stares from that quarter as well.

During this walk, we saw a dead horse lying beside the road, ribs with dogs drapped over them, people everywhere dressed in dirty ill fitting clothes, often with out shoes. Meat, fish, and fruit vendors with their wares along with the ubiquitous flies. We also saw people dressed in bright colored fabric and gold jewelry. The people themselves were gorgeous, and each pair of eyes held the intensity of experience.

That night we were taken to a five star hotel-resort on the beach. That was a crazy two days, which involved a lot of drinking, lounging by the pool, and commenting about how this was not the usual "Peace Corps Experience", and of course bonding with my new friends. One night we went down on the beach, which we were told not to do at night, and heard some African drumming at a local bar. The beach in front of our resort was clean and deserted, but further along the beach there were tents lined up shoulder to shoulder and three deep, where the local fisherman lived. The beach outside of the resort was thick with trash and people.

The next day in Dakar I had my first real interaction with African people. I walked down the beach with about five of our guys, I was the only girl, and we went out on the rocks. Some children came up to us and were singing and rapping and making percusion on their bodies. An African man stood apart from us to make and observed with a blank face. Once I picked up one of the small children he walked away. Then, a group of women, the ones dressed in bright clothes with gold jewelery, approached our group and motioned for me to come over to them. I donºt think they were able to ask the guys. I climbed across the rocks, and they began handing me their babies to hold. I smile, they smile, they take of my sunglasses and put them on, and then they start indicating through signals that I should keep one of the babies. I wanºt sure at first, but then it became really obvious that they actually wanted me to keep a baby. I declined as politely as I could.

I am safe and sound in Cape Verde right now. We are training in a rural town without email, but I am in the Capital at the moment visiting the university where I will be teaching. We turn into a pumpkin or some shit if we arenºt back to site by nightfall so I have to run. More to come on Cape Verde, my homestay family, my new friends, and language aquisition to come. It will probably be a couple of weeks.

In case anyone is worried about the invincible Jessica, Cape Verde is much nicer than Dakarl My training town was described as a place you could strip naked, paste dollar bills to your body, and still be completely safe. Oh, and by the way, I am living life the way it should be lived and am happy in an absolute kind of way.

Ok, this has to be quick. I have been team building and ice breaking for two days. Some of my new friends and I decided to have a sit in if they made us do the trust fall. My arm is full of needle holes from vacination and I am living on the tired side of life. Last night I jumped into a dark alley and had my future read. Things are looking up.

I have to run and get rid of some of my shit because I am 25 pounds over on my luggage. For some reason, I am the leader for my group in case we get stranded in Dakar during our layover. I was unwillingly selected for this role for my language and travel experience, although I've never been to Africa and I don't speak french, but hey. Feeling excited as fuck and just a little hectic.

I'm off to do the toughest job I'll ever love. (I couldn't resist that one)

Over and Out.

I have the going away party down to a science. When you threaten to move thousands of miles away for over a year and a half, you get all kinds of attention. Tonight I will have my last little partay and it shall be quite fun. Five days until I leave so there is no time for me to squeeze out more attention from my lovely friends.

I do rash things when I get anxious. Typically, this involves compulsive purchases. Yesterday, I decided that I needed a haircut. I have really, very nice hair, and I can say this without feeling conceited. During my four years of chemo, it was thin, limp, scraggly, and it fell out in big chunks. Patches of my skull peeked through. In fact, I would pull out large sections, a disturbingly painless process, for the amusement of my playground friends. My mother strongly discouraged this behavior. I survived the chemical pickling, and my hair grew back thick and shiny. It became sacred, to be worn long, and treated with respect. For all these reasons I have never been one to cut my own hair. But, last night I started lifting and cutting and scraping the scissors along the length of my hair to create the desired jagged effect. Shag-o-rama. It was fun-liberating-a conscious effort to be rid of attachment. Don’t worry I didn’t go all Billy Jean. Actually, once my sister gave me a completely new hair cut, it looks rather nice.

My excellent adventure to the west coast was fantastic. I must send a shout out to the beautiful Frank and Erin and their donation of frequent flier miles that made the trip possible. I’m not sure a person could have better friends. They are also the proud parents of McKenna Shea Brosnan. The seven week old is capable of eating, sleeping, emitting projectile excretions, and completely melting ones heart. I also very much enjoyed the celebrity status of moving around SF and the Biggity-Biggity “O” with an infant. It took me a moment to figure out why people were looking smiley moo-face at me. They jump up to offer you, or should I say Erin, their bus seat. This courtesy doesn’t actually extend to friends of parent of said baby, but still doors open and traffic stops.

No Alcatraz, Lombard, or Sea Lions were had in San Francisco, but I did get to see many people that I’ve been sorely missing. It was a little hectic running around to see everyone, and I had this realization that the Bay makes me kind of crazy. But, it was fantastic, fabulous, and satisfactory to see everyone.

And then, up to Tahoe-liquid blue in sunshine. My Rome girls flew in from all over to see me off. Lets give another round of applause to the Marzanos for letting us descend on their place. While in Tahoe, I found that it is impossible for me to get drunk if I follow these simple rules: a) drink dirty martinis b) drink sake c) drink with Betsy.

However unsatisfied I could be with various aspects of my life, I could not be more pleased with quality of the people I know and am lucky enough to call friends. It was good to spend time with them. Erin G. and Tifanie, of equal quality, could not make the trip. Boo, I say. I missed them.

And now, I’m back in good ol’ Nebraski getting ready to go. Countdown: 16 days. HOLY SHIT. I am frazzling with powers of attorney, insurance, living wills, loan deferments, and other stuff. Drag. Somewhere under the planks in my brain, reality is breaking through. 16 days until I got on the plane for some islands off the coast of Africa. Yesterday it began, this seeping of reality. July 5th moves toward me and I just sit here watching the days fall of the calendar, and then I will get on a plane and fly into 2 years of the unknown. Tick-tock.

The countdown has begun. 41 more days until the plane takes me bye-bye. My life has become defined by the process of waiting. But now, the time for my departure is slipping closer and I'm not sure that it seems at all real.

I have been having strange dreams. One included a freakish baby in the bathroom, peaking from behind the door and uttering evil words from the devil. I picked up the baby and countered with the traditional exorcist type spiel, calling on God to remove the evil. This seemed to work since the baby chilled out considerably. When, in an aside to someone else in the dream, I commented that I wasn't even sure that I believed any of the stuff I used to expel the demons, the baby lapsed back into its muttering. I really don't want to begin to analyze this, but feel free to chime in. The second dream of the same ilk involved a tattoo on my arm. I selected this cheesy design from a bunch of drawings in the shop, and the guy didn't even put it in the right place-too far down and to the right. I was having serious tattoo remorse and when I checked it out in the mirror, there were all these red hatch marks arranged in a perfect line up and down both arms. You could only see them in the reflection.

The anxiety dreams are very weird, but please do not worry. I am feeling fantastic. The sun is blazing on the plains and flowers are everywhere. Summer is my season. I am scurrying around collecting things for my trip, and spending time with my sister and her kids. I am really going to miss them now that they are such a part of my life. Other than that, I am freakin' ready to get on that plane.

Last night I went to a show. A guy at work is in a local band, Eyescatchfire. I skipped the after-party, as I am feeling in need of my sleep, especially on a Thursday night. Last time I hung out with these guys I didn't get home until 6:30 am. So, here I am at the human testing lab, killing time, playing with the colors on my blog, yet again, and counting down the days till liftoff, 41 to be precise.

Looking forward to seeing everyone in the Bay. 7 days on that countdown. Don't worry I'll leave the demons at home. Over.

My computer set up at work was bugging my neck so I requested a new computer tray and they sent Lawrence, one of the maintenance guys, to install it.

This man is tall, in his forties, and walks with a lumbering gait that hints at some type of leg problem. I see him trudge by my fishbowl everyday. As he installs the tray, he mentions to us that he is going through a divorce and calls his ex-wife an FB. That is exactly what he calls her - actually using the initials instead of the words. It is shocking to us given the office culture and his seemingly mellow disposition. When Kelly mentions that she too is divorced, he asks her out jokingly, but we all know he isn’t really joking as much as we know she isn’t going to go out with him. He’s obviously a bummed out guy. When he leaves, we laugh about the FB and the proposition. Poor guy, we say.

Then about a week later, we heard that Lawrence gassed himself to death in his car. I didn’t know how to feel because I didn’t know the man outside of our short conversation while he installed my computer tray. It is just strange to know that I was talking to someone hopeless enough to kill himself. It is kind of awful that I was able to laugh about how weird the interaction was without a thought about the possibility that this man was moving over the edge. It made me realize that I probably speak with people who are that drained every day.

Two family funerals in the last three months have brought me back to myself in appreciation of lives well lived. My grandfather willed his body into submission, and stayed alive longer than expected. My cousin struggled and triumphed against severe odds her entire life. I stand in their shadows.

But, the death of this man who hated his own life is a thing to ponder. The brief intersection of my life, content and on the cusp of adventure, with his, moving painfully towards self-termination, was insignificant. Or was it? It might be true that if we had said something different this man might still be alive. Yet, I doubt our interaction had much sway one way or the other. The chemicals in his brain might have been looping in the wrong direction. Or, the culmination of his life’s events combined with his natural coping mechanisms just didn’t cut it. Who knows?

All I can say is that I find myself increasingly aware of the immediacy of things. We should move without fear and enjoy the process.

Life, my friends, should be lived ferociously.

somehow I forgot

the cutting of eyeteeth

edges on life

then,

lullabies, numbness, and silken cocoons

boredom and soft disappointment

vacations of the mind

back into myself - fierce

no more sordid sips from forgetful rivers

no more leaches on my dreams

beautiful storms are brewing

Yesterday we had a tornado warning. I was at work at the corporate human testing lab, and we were ushered downstairs to wait out the warning. Everyone in the building packed into the basement and I had a private ohmygod there are too many people around me in a tight space with low drop ceilings and no windows anxiety attack. Please do not worry, there was no hair pulling or pants wetting, but I did feel extremely uncomfortable. It’s the same, but less intense, when I go into a shopping mall. Some spaces are just plain bad for you. They twist your brain sideways.

At least I wasn’t in the hallway with my head between my legs for an hour with anxious children all around me. That’s how my sister, the teacher, endured the tornado watch. Of course, nothing exciting happened. No flying cows, old ladies on bicycles, or fields full of poppies, which would have been very interesting indeed. We just went down to a crowded basement and then back up to our desks several minutes later. Boring…

Now, if I had my druthers of natural disasters, I would take the good ol’ hurricane any day. The tornado and earthquake provide little warning, and are over before you have time to jump under the desk or hunker in a doorframe. The hurricane is slow and methodical. It understands the beauty of anticipation and retains the prerogative of changing its mind. We remember them by name.

As a former Floridian I have watched my share of hurricane paths and sat through many a tropical storm. Hurricane Opal crashed through my old hood, slamming a tree through my neighbor’s window and taking down the stoplight several yards from our front door. The wind blew a single shingle from our roof, and my Mom nailed it down the next day. The beach was devastated. Don’t get me wrong, hurricanes can be nasty and destructive.

But, the beauty of the hurricane is the hurricane party. Right, Heidi? Deanna? Kasey? Chris? Jacqueline? Fellow Floridians do you hear me? The hurricane party lasts for days. You have plenty of time to prepare. You gather alcohol, smokables, sleeping bags, card games, and all of your friends that you can handle for an extended periods of time. Then you party together for several days. Nothing bad ever happens, at least not to me. The hurricane is fair enough to give you warning to get out of town if necessary. This my friends is far superior to holding your head between your legs in a cramped room of co-workers or watching the floor make a wave beneath your feet.

Even more interesting is that Cape Verde is the place of conception for hurricanes. They build up steam and wind and rain off the coast of Africa before their journey across the Atlantic. So, anyone who gets to have a hurricane party in the next few years can stand outside and catch something of me on the wind.

I’m wicked bored today. I don’t have much in the way of actual work so I decided to play with the colors on my blog. It is finally getting warm in Nebraska and the flowers are coming on and the trees are blooming. It makes me very happy. I wanted my blog to reflect this change.

It was a mistake. The more I changed the colors the more I didn’t like the changes. I got stuck in color palate torture land. Has anyone ever asked you to help choose the new paint colors for their house and your forced to look at color swatches that barely vary in shade. Colors and combinations of colors and more bad combinations of colors and tedious html code. Ugh. My eyes hurt. I kind of can’t believe I’m still writing about it.

I’m going back ebay and the land of web surfing, counting down the minutes for the weekend to begin.

I've been trying to get all my ducks in a row for the great adventure. One of those lovely ducks, more like the ugly duckling, takes the shape of my student loans. I am pleased that they will be in deferment, but unfortunately some of them will continue to accrue interest due to their "unsubsidized" status. I've been looking into ways of dropping the interest rates. Today I found out several things.

a)Sallie Mae is a scourge and scoundrel.

b)I cannot lock in lower interest rates because I've already consolidated.

c)My interest rates are really high.

I spoke with a lovely man with an equally pleasing British accent on the phone today, who guided me towards the blessed loop hole. I must take out another student loan and consolidate that with the old loans. Ok, great. But, now I am enrolled in Sign Language and Sociology at the local community college where I am also a teacher. It makes sense that I must actually be a student to have more student loans. I plan to be a horrible student with minimal attendance who eventually takes incompletes for some as yet un-concocted emergency or other restricting situation. I will save thousands of dollars over the long term. So, yes, this is in fact worth it.

I call the community college today which informs me that I must enroll today to get classes in the Spring Quarter. I dash from work and am driving at precisely 10 miles over the speed limit only to see the proverbial blue and red flashers in the rear view mirror. I pull over. Mr. high and tight, small town cop saunters up to my car. And now I face the dilemma of flirting my way out of a situation, something I used to refuse as an inherently degrading act, or take the ticket, which I really cannot afford.

I mentally tear up my first-wave feminist card, and sign up for the second-wave. I am now a card holding member. Use it if you've got it, right? I roll down the window and fumble through the documentation in the glove box.

"Which card do you need officer?" I give him my best puppy dog eyes. They worked the last two times I escaped arrest. OK, so maybe I've been second-wave all along. He selects the appropriate documentation and turns to walk away. "Am I going to get a ticket?"

"I don't like to get into that at this point in the process, Ma'am" his posture is perfect and he's smiling. Things are looking up. "California? I used to live there for 9 years," he says. Great, we are kindred spirits.

"Really? Where?" I ask.

"Camp Pendleton, when I was in the Marine Corps."

Ohhhhhh. I bet he doesn't like those dirty hippies from San Francisco. I bet he dislikes feminists of all varieties. I especially bet he doesn’t like people who judge him on his appearance and occupation alone. I flash a smile. He flashes back with teeth as straight as his back and goes to his car to look up my record.

I feel pretty good at this point; we are smiling; we are talking. Then, I remember that I am delinquent for jury duty in SF because I do not in fact live there although I still retain my driver's license in that state. My license could be suspended. Really, nothing is ever simple with me. He comes back to the car with a warning and a bit more chit chat. I am happy, but running late for the lets register at the last minute to save thousands of dollars over the next thirty years mission.

I got there in time for last second registration and cut classes on the first day.

Speaking of red tape, I have lots and lots of other forms to fill out as part of the “process” of getting ready for the PC.

Red tape and red sirens. Ridiculous financial scenarios. Ugh. But, I am smiling because it is getting close. My Phoenix will be rising soon. I don't have long to go. Life is coming and I can wield my patience like a weapon.

Oh, and let’s all give a shout out to Mr. Small Town Arian Cop. He's on the 'A' list today.

Last weekend I went to Red Oak, Iowa to visit some family. What you’ve never heard of it? The population is about 7,000 and they have at least two bars. Gosh, get with it.

I hung out with my cousin and his friends at one of the two local bars. This one happened to belong to his room-mate's parents. My cousin introduced me to almost everyone in the bar, and I felt quite the celebrity.

I ordered a Boulevard from a generally attractive woman besides the fact that she was missing several of her front teeth. Although the beer was on tap, she said to me, “you’re gonna have to tell me what’s in that honey.” I pointed to the beer tap and said, “beer”. She laughed, “Oh, I’ve never heard of that kind before.” I laughed too. She was obviously the regular bar tender. They had to change the keg for my second beer, and I had to wonder just how old that made my first beer.

The band was playing standard classic rock cover songs, but later in the night they broke into an impressive version of Ice, Ice Baby. A group of young women, thoroughly enjoying themselves on the dance floor, would frequently get on stage and sandwich both the guitar and bass players. The musicians neither seemed to encourage or discourage the attention, but were able to play through the frequent grinding sessions.

By the time we got back to Ryan’s house, it was time for a nice plate of bacon and eggs, which he promptly put on the skillet. I was standing on a stepstool, hanging out with the guys, minding my own business, when one of them decided to grab me around my lower legs and throw me over his shoulder. Ok funny, now put me down. I get it; I’m this petite thing that you can’t help throwing over your shoulder like a fucking cave man.

Well, Steve was very drunk and he started to sort of stagger around the kitchen. I have distinct memory of saying, “Whoa, Whoa,” several times. Then the guy falls over. He doesn’t fall down, he falls over without even bending at the knees, as if his entire body is a plank. We land on the floor, and surprisingly I am unhurt. Steve, however, cracks his forehead on the doorframe that we fell through. My cousin doesn’t even break his stride, doesn’t even hurt his head. He just says, “Fucking Idiot,” and continues to cook.

Steve’s head begins to swell into what will be one hell of a bruise the next day. I opened the freezer and threw a frozen steak at him, “put this on your head.” I felt kind of bad for him, but not too bad considering he could have killed me. Paul and I fell into an intense giggle fit. It was so ridiculous, and eventually Steve went into the other room because he was so embarrassed.

I have been puzzled for quite some time during my stay here in Nebraska. The weather is cold and the sun elusive. During the winter, I am most certain that people spend a majority of their time indoors, and yet they sport the most amazingly bronzed skin, expecially the women. Having spent conisderable time in tropical climates, I know the type of conditions that can produce such a tan, and trust me ladies ang gents it ain't the Nebraska winters.

I made the logical yet false assumption that the women in Nebraksa frequented tanning palors. Today, I was informed otherwise. In fact, these women have simply been abusing their EASY BAKE OVEN privledges. Go figure.

Cape Verde, ladies and gentleman, The Republic of Cape Verde.

That’s where I’ll be going in July, and I can’t wipe this stupid grin off my face. I feel as if I’ve won the lottery. It is not exactly the mud hut scenario I was imagining, but as the wonderful Peace Corps Recruiters kept insisting, one must be flexible and expect the unexpected. I’m just gonna go along with this one.

Cape Verde is a group of about ten volcanic islands about 350 miles off the coast of North West Africa. They were uninhabited until the Portuguese colonized the islands during the slave trade. The people speak Portuguese and a Crioulo, mixture of Portuguese and African dialects. The people are poor, but not so much as some other African countries. The weather is hot, but it is the coolest African country. The total area of the islands is about the size of Rhode Island. There is a big push in the education system to learn English and I will be teaching students from the 7th to 12th grade. I will also be responsible for organizing other community activities or awareness groups.

The islands are said to have some of the world’s most beautiful beaches. Popular activities on the island include windsurfing, surfing, scuba diving & snorkeling, and whale watching. Each island has its own weeklong carnivale celebration. The music is supposed to be fantastic. My diet will consist of fish, papaya, banana, local grains, and avocado when in season. Holy Shit, right?

Some of the personal statements from volunteers in country stated that they felt guilty that they were in such a beautiful place and weren’t suffering enough. Another consideration that the Peace Corps wanted to point out is that drinking is an active part of the lifestyle and that if I had any drinking issues, I should consider another placement. Well, OK. On my list of things to bring was snorkeling gear.

Have I died and gone to heaven? I had dreams last night that they called to change my location and that I was going to Central Asia after all. I have to keep pinching myself.

Here are some of the harder things I will have to deal with, but I’m not that worried.

*lack of running water – I may have to collect rain water or carry water over distance.

*lack of electricity – I may or may not have electricity depending if my placement is rural or urban. But it is possible I will have the Internet. Who knows on that one.

*I will probably have a roommate because the culture is not comfortable with single women living alone.

*Machismo culture that will make my acceptance as a woman and a professional more difficult.

*There seems to be a lot of theft.

*Acceptance by local women is often difficult.

Country Info:

www.worldatlas.com/webimage/countrys/africa/cv www.lonelyplanet.com/destinations/africa/cape_verde

This girl is in the peacecorp in Cape Verde:

www.angelfire.com/home/elektra/photogallery.html

Some photos:

www.galenfrysinger.com/cape_verde_islands.htm

Soooooooooo, I can stop my super neurotic, compulsive behavior. Checking the PC website every 10 minutes(literally) is simply not healthy, not to mention kind of a bad work ethic.

They sent my packet yesterday and I have been officially invited. I still don't know anything, except that the packet was sent, but I will know EVERYTHING as soon as the bundle of papers makes its way from D.C. into my hot little hands.

Now, I get to stand by the mailbox, compulsive and neurotic. The mailman and I are going to become quite close. Poor Fellow.

In preparation of my teaching job in Africa, I have starting volunteering as an ESL instructor for the local CC here in Lincoln. I am enjoying the hell out of doing something that I feel is valid.

I have these standards in my head about what is a “valid” and “not-valid” as a use of my time. Unfortunately, I have spent a lot of my time on “not-valid” activities. Valid activities include, but are not limited to, the creation of art, the promotion of art, the helping of others, the informing of others, and the pure enjoyment of self. Not-valid activities include the making of money for pure money’s sake that works towards the detriment of others. I realize that I have become a creative apologist for the validity of certain activities that seem inherently not-valid. Of course, these are activitites in which I find myself involved.

But, I digress. My role in this classroom is to work with the students who are the furthest behind in their English skills so the primary teacher can take the rest of the class forward. My student is a middle-aged Vietnamese woman, who is a naturalized citizen. She gives me a great big hug when I arrive to the class. Yesterday’s lesson involved learning the names of different jobs, how to find jobs in the paper, and career stuff in general. As part of the discussion, I asked her about her job.

This is what she told me as far as the language barrier permitted:

She works in some kind of chicken processing establishment. Her job is to weigh out 2-pound increments of chicken legs and thighs into bags that are then sent to SAMS of all places. She has to be there at 6:30 am each day. They send her home at varying times. Some days she works two hours. Other days ten hours. She would like to work a set 6 hours per day. She has worked in this position for nine years. I did not ask her how much money she makes.

Holy Shit, right? I have the luxury of discussing whether my job is “valid”, and this poor woman has one of the most monotonous and non-rewarding occupations I can imagine. After nine years, she doesn’t even have enough seniority to be given a set schedule. Her English is not developed enough for her to advocate for herself. I wonder if she even has benefits? Has she gotten raises during her time there? Agh… It makes me mad.

On February 11, 2005, I held my grandfather’s hand and looked into his clear blue eyes as he moved from this life to the next. I told him not to be afraid. I told him everything was going to be OK. I told him I loved him.

This man was the father of six children, grandfather to eleven, devoted to his Catholicism, loyal to his wife, Irish in his wit, proud throughout his life and courageous in his death. He lived his life according to his own principles and as my grandmother keeps saying, “he was a good man.”

My grandfather had become a prisoner in his own body. His brain continued to thrive while his body became weaker, while he maintained his pride against a growing dependence on other people. Not a person at the funeral did not feel relief that he was no longer in pain.

When I was a baby, he would put me to sleep, singing Irish lullabies. I remember the lilt in his voice and the hint of an Irish accent on his tongue.

When I was a child he would “plant” candy corn on the ceiling after we went to bed. In the morning my sister and I would point to the places we could see it growing. He would jump up and then offer his hand full of the candy. Eventually my sister and I tackled my sweet grandfather to the ground and pried the bag of candy out his pocket.

During a visit about 10 years ago, my grandfather suddenly grabbed my hand and looked at my crooked pinky finger. I have had arguments over these fingers with people who insist that I must have broken them at some point in my life. I was prepared to give him an explanation for the strange finger when he showed me his hands with identical fingers.

My grandmother and I were both holding his hand as he struggled from life. We were still holding his hand after his death. She looked down at his hand and smiled, showing me his pinky finger bent in two places. I then showed my grandmother my own crooked little fingers, which she had never noticed. “Genes,” she said.

Indeed.