35,000 Dobras

By Beth

“35,000 dobras????”  Kilson looks at me in disgust. “Can you believe that?”

I'm out getting beers with Kilson and his cousin and they are in absolute shock over the check. The beers at this restaurant in the small oceanside city of Pantufo, in São Tomé, are almost three times the cost of other areas- they ring up for 35,000 dobras each, or a whopping $2.50. I smile, saying nothing. It's not that things are always much cheaper here- they aren't always. But they are most of the time. In the USA where prices are stacked higher and higher in order to benefit the many people who work within the production chain, here in São Tomé things are priced only slightly higher than the cost for which they are purchased or produced. There is little profit. I noticed that when I was living in Portugal, too- you could buy a loaf of bread there for less than 0.50 EUR, when loaves of bread in the USA are $2 or $3 at the very least. But here the prices are even lower.

Well, like, I said, most of the time.

I learned the hard way to bring more clothes- especially clothes for going out- the next time I come back to São Tomé. A simple cotton dress, one of those light summery pieces with little flavor or design that you can pick up at any K-Mart for less than $10, retail here for about 400,000 dobras, or $26. And those are the cheapest dresses I could find.

Imported African wax print, 30,000 Dobras, or $2, per meter

If you want something that actually looks nice, Kilson's mom owns a store in town. The dresses there, something I could pick up at TJ Maxx for $20, cost about 2 million dobras, or $125. Something so shocking I now understand why so many of the poorer women in town wear pieces of fabric tied around their waist- because it's so expensive to do anything else!

You can buy a cerveja nacional, or the locally produced beer, for 10,000 dobras, or about $0.70. For 10,000 dobras you can also buy:

A taxi ride anywhere in the city, provided you don't mind sharing with a car-full of people, which is how they do it here.

A patching on your motorcycle tire and filling of air, which I learned the hard way- but if you're with Kilson, because he knows everyone in town, that's free.

Two cinnamon bun-type pastries at the local padaria

Ten pieces of chewing gum or five lollipops (that are equivalent to Blow-Pops, with gum in the center)
A one-scoop ice cream cone (though let me tell you, the ice cream culture here is depressing)

Palm wine I think we spent about 25,000 Dobras on for a three-gallon jug

For 30,000 dobras, or about $2.10, you can get order a conch appetizer at a restaurant, or about eight small espetadas (shish kabobs). You can successfully eat a filling dinner at a restaurant, consisting of two cervejas nacionais, an appetizer, two entrees and two coffees for about 180,000 dobras, for $12.
Which is why Kilson almost shrieked with delight when, on my last night here, I was paid for teaching the English classes that I thought I was doing for free, leaving us with about 400,000 dobras to spend in one night (because who cares about saving, really?). “We can do ANYTHING,” he said to me with a smile. That night we ate like kings.

Boleia!

By Beth

“Boleia!” the men shout to me from the sides of the road as I whiz by on my blue Suzuki motorcycle. This is how you flag down a ride when you see a motorcycle taxi go by in São Tomé. But directed to me it is more of a joke, of course- there are no female motorcycle taxi drivers, and certainly no white ones. It makes me smile because the São Tomeans play with me the way an aunt or uncle or cousin would- lightly making fun that, in some ways, makes you feel more at home.

Dany taught me how to ride a motorcycle so that I didn't have to depend on him for rides into town. As someone who never knew

My lovely mota, sans me, because I was uh...the one taking the picture

how to drive a car with a manual transmission, learning to ride a motorcycle took me a minute. I still have trouble starting it sometimes and shifting into first without stalling (for this reason I used to abhor four-way stops, but am slowly getting better at them), especially with someone riding behind me, since they add more weight. But the feeling of being on a motorcycle is freeing. My thighs tighten their grip on the motorcycle's body as if I were riding a horse. I lean forward, turn up the gas, passing palm trees and people selling coconuts and oceans and sand. I love my mota and it serves me well.

Like learning to ride my mota, it also took me a minute to get used to the stares. No one means harm by them, but coming from a place like the USA where people will get into fights with other people that look at them, it's strange to move from invisible to famous. But the worst thing you can do is turn in. In a strange way, São Tomé very much nurtures individuality. You learn to be like, “yup, I'm a white woman, and I ride a motorcycle, and what of it?” Kids pass and they call to me. “Amiga!” They yell. “Branca!” Friend. White woman. Men do the same, or they hiss.

But you don't ignore them. You look at them right in the eye. You say, “Hey there, good afternoon! How are you?” You smile, laugh. You are comfortable with who you are. And they, in turn, are comfortable with you too. You are a part of this community whether you like it or not.

My boyfriend, Kilson, greets every single person he sees. Everyone knows him. He might walk into a room with fifteen people and if ten of them are people he vaguely knows, he will walk around shaking the hand or kissing the cheek of every single one, then introduce himself to the people he does not know yet. Sometimes I think he is a local celebrity. He does not demand respect from people. He gives it out with graceful ease; and, in this way, it comes back to him tenfold.

Like my motorcycle weakness is shifting into first, Kilson's driving weakness is speed bumps. But he doesn't know how to drive a motorcycle, and he's not afraid to admit that he's scared of them. He gives me his baseball cap and sunglasses and I give him my helmet. We're in the middle of the city and he hops on the motorcycle behind me, wearing the helmet, even though 99% of the time it's the driver that wears the helmet in this culture. But then again, 99% of the time it's the man that drives, too. He is a muscular black man hopping onto the back of a white woman's motorcycle, and he's wearing a helmet, and what of it, because he's Kilson and everyone knows him and he is comfortable with himself and because of this he can do absolutely whatever he wants.

Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two (Part 2)!

By AJ

Last month, I focused on the parts of male culture that I saw in South Africa that promoted infidelity and having multiple girlfriends, or cherries (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/27/get-yourself-a-girlfriend-or-two/).  There is more to the story though.  The pressure doesn't just come from other guys, but from some girls too.

Now most women who have traveled abroad will probably have experienced some of the unwanted attention that is a result of a healthy patriarchy.  If you are unfamiliar with this, see: (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/15/shes-with-me/).  One of the reasons this kind of behavior is so alive and well is because a lot of women play into it. The few that don't are mavericks like Mpho (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/10/11/starting-the-conversation/). But there is a story you may not often hear, and that is of the unexpected attention that men sometimes get when traveling abroad.

“Un”wanted Attention
I'd been at my site for almost two months and I was finally beginning to put names to faces.  I had almost all the teachers down but was lost with the 500+ kids at the high school.  Only a few stood out, like Mofokeng, who taught me to herd goats after school, Thabiso, who spoke great English and was teaching me seTswana, and Patience, whose powerful voice led the entire school in song at each morning assembly.  She was a senior and a pretty girl. Each day after school as I walked home, I'd pass her and her group of friends as they chatted.  Patience would always greet me with a big smile.  One day, she called me over to chat.

“KB, when are you going to make us dinner.” (KB was my nickname)
“I think there's a misunderstanding. I'm not making any dinner.”
“Can we come over to visit you then?”
“Umm, I guess so, everyone here knows where I live.”
“Can I spend the night?”
“No no no no...and in fact, maybe you shouldn't come over...”

I hastily beat a retreat down the dusty road.  This was not the first nor the last time I'd turn down such propositions and flirtations.

One instance was more subtle, but far more troubling.  Lerato was a relative of my host family and often came over to help with errands and take care of the babies.  She was one of my early allies as I struggled to master seTswana. She'd often help translate what people were saying in broken English.  One day as we were baby-sitting the two year old Tlotlo, I tried to teach her “Rock, Paper, Scissors.”  After a few minutes she gave up and insisted on showing me a game.  She held out her right hand in a fist.  She wiggled her thumb, and told me to raise it. Then she wiggled her index finger.  Then her thumb again, this time indicating to put it down. And finally she wiggled her index finger again.  As I looked to ask what was next in this game, she gave me a big smile and I looked down again at her hand. “Oh shit...” I thought to myself.  The hand gesture, which some of you may know as sign language for “t”, in South Africa is one of many ways to subtly say, “I want to have sex with you.”  I looked at Lerato with terror in my eyes and shook my head to try to erase any mixed signals I may have unintentionally sent.  It's not that I'm terrified of girls, just that Lerato was 14 at the time.

Unfamiliar territory
From what I've seen, in the world of guys, unless you happen to be a Brad Pitt look alike or the star quarterback, it's unlikely that you'll find girls aggressively hitting on you.  Flirting is an entirely different matter, but most of us are not used to having a girl directly communicate that they want us.  The onus is on the guy to make the first move in general.  When an American guy is then placed into this unfamiliar circumstance where he might have to actually bat away girls, there are many problems that can arise.  Quite honestly, it feels kind of nice for a change and it can be very tempting for a guy alone in a foreign place.  Some lucky ones find meaningful relationships but unfortunately, in most cases, I think the American guy is viewed as an economic rather than an emotional investment.
In places where male promiscuity is boasted about, it's often the case that female virginity and fidelity are highly prized.  This asymmetry shouldn't be mistaken for practice.  If every guy has multiple sexual partners, it's highly unlikely that all the women are sticking to one guy.  When I started my service I was in a long distance relationship.  I thought that the answer that I had a girlfriend would be enough to  end the discussion.  I was taken aback when some girls responded with, “But she is so far away. You need a girlfriend here.”  Another volunteer working in the health sector was told by people in his organization that he should knock up some local girls in order to “leave a remembrance” of himself for them.  Perhaps, as I discussed previously, there should be some kind of menist movement, but the feminist movement still has plenty of work out there globally and more men we get behind it rather than obstructing it, the better.

Shades of Grey
Like so many other issues, the issue of male promiscuity can't be pinned down to one thing alone.  Sometimes there is pressure from both men AND women for guys to be promiscuous. It's not an excuse.  But it's something to think about before demonizing men. Lots of the married male teachers I knew and worked with had stuff going on with women in the village, some even with students.  In some cases, I already didn't get along with them for other reasons and this just added fuel to the fire. In some cases though, it was a tortuous relationship because I knew some of these guys were good people and good teachers but that under a very heavy societal and physical pressure they had made a few choices that were not the best.

When traveling or working abroad, you will occasionally find the guys that are true free thinkers that swim against the patriarchy like the friend I described in my last column.  More often, you will find guys that are doing some things that clash with your sensibilities. Some may be jerks that you want nothing to do with. Others though, may actually be decent people that could be quite helpful.  It's not easy to tell sometimes but it's worth the effort to find out.

Culturally Illiterate

By Beth

I set my notebook down on the table in front of the teachers. Today is our day to review the computer program that we have developed, to look at basic computer troubleshooting, and to think about the classes that will pick up after Christmas break. It is Friday, which is when we usually meet up and plan our lessons. It is also my last week in São Tomé e Príncipe and I am trying to leave my teachers self-sufficient, so that they don't need me during the eight months that I will be gone. It is a difficult task and certainly not the best situation- I wish I could stay and lend a hand. But this program is theirs to develop. On their own. If they can do that, I know the future of the One Laptop per Child program here in São Tomé will be in good hands.

“Now,” I say, looking at the five of them. “Before we talk about tomorrow's class, I wanted to go over this guidebook I made for you that will help you troubleshoot any computer problems that you may come across.”

“What class tomorrow?????” The teachers ask me, all five of them. “Don't you remember? We're going on a field trip!”

After about ten minutes of back-and-forth, I realize that we have, once again, hit a cultural speedbump. Last week the teachers and I agreed to take the kids to the beach the following Saturday to celebrate our last day together. I stood beside Miguel as we told the students to bring their computers to class Saturday morning, as we would be leaving for the field trip shortly after.

However, it seems as though my words did not resonate in Miguel. And what I didn't realize is that, it just doesn't work like that here. You either have class, or you go on a class trip. You don't- you can't- do both. So no matter how much you may tell someone otherwise, it's so different to them that it's not even remotely possible that it's true.

Years of culture were acting against me on this Friday in São Tomé. I see some of the teachers getting frustrated with me. Language has bitten me in the butt once again.

Here in São Tomé, I am very happy and have some great friends, but at the same time, I tend to get frustrated and/or offend other people regularly. My Portuguese is solid enough that I really get to know people for their personalities and not as much as a visitor or a foreigner. Yet it's a different world when you're nearly fluent in a language but completely illiterate in the culture. I wonder if it's a double-edged sword to be like this- able to relate to another person perfectly on a linguistic level without knowing their culture. Because when you are able to communicate easily with another person, it is also that much easier to assume they are just like you, culturally. It makes it easier to bicker and fight or to get frustrated.

When you don't speak a language, I think you are often extremely open to different cultures and experiences. You treat it like a game, in a sense. The voice of adventure in you says “go!” But when you speak the language, when you can connect with these people on a different level, not only do you forge deeper relationships, but you also put other relationships at risk. If someone says something that you don't agree with, it hits you square in the eyes and you react relative to your own culture. But if you don't speak the language, you smile because you don't understand anyway.

It's a funny situation when you understand a language but not a culture. I find myself defending my actions often by saying “I'm sorry, I'm just not used to the way you guys do it here because it's not like that in the States!” Sometimes the boys ask me if I want them to give me a ride into town, if I want them to go buy me gas for my motorcycle, or other little tasks. I am used to saying “Sure, but I don't want to impose, so if you don't want to, that's ok.”

And when I say that here, people get angry with me. “Do you want to or not?????” They snap. I don't mean to offend. I try to tell them that in the States, people don't necessarily mean what they say, and you always have to give them a chance to back out of it. But to São Tomeans that's the craziest idea, and something they may never fully understand.

If I didn't speak Portuguese, would there be so many mix-ups, so many misunderstandings? Probably not, because I would go with the flow, a smile on my face. But on the other hand, how well can you know someone without understanding their words? But in an age of not always saying what you mean, is body language enough?

Sempre Fixe

By Beth

Greetings are important in São Tomé. You cannot enter a room without greeting every single person in it, whether it's a handshake, a kiss, a hello, whatever.

Sometimes to save time from having to go and kiss someone you give them a thumbs up. Thumbs up means, "Tudo fixe?" ("fixe" rhymes with "leash", for those who care about pronunciation) or "Everything cool?" And the correct response is to give the person a thumbs up back, which means "sempre fixe" or "always cool". It's like the São Tomé version of pounding it, giving knuckles.
We drive by in our truck en route to the STeP UP office, where I work. As we see people we know, we give them thumbs up. They give thumbs up back. Now they have been appropriately greeted.
I like the phrase "sempre fixe". Everything is cool. Life is good. No worries. It also makes me think of my friend Marvin.

Marvin and I dated for some time back in the States. Now we are very good friends. Marvin is an officer in the Marine Corps and life isn't easy for him. When we stopped dating, he had to move to Oklahoma for artillery training and, a few months later, I went to São Tomé. He didn't like the idea of me doing volunteer work in another country. When I told him originally that I wanted to apply for the Peace Corps (which I didn't end up doing), he would tell me to do things like keep a gun on me at all times. His family is Haitian and I find Haiti to be very much like São Tomé, tropical, in terrible need, but quite friendly, but it still didn't assuage his worry for my safety in Africa. Haiti is much more dangerous...and in that way its similarity to São Tomé makes Marvin nervous...in case it is dangerous, too.

Yet sometime in the next couple of days, he'll be going off to do his own foreign and quite dangerous traveling, to Afghanistan.

I try not to worry about him, but he is a close friend, a brother. I have been following his life from afar, coping along with the rest of America, watching every news program with a knot in my stomach and hoping for just a little more information about what the war brings. I remember the "Semper Fi" sticker he had on his SUV. "Always Faithful," as the Marine Corps says.

There is a point where lives intersect, and often again where lives fork. We have both gone off to our respective battles in different countries, seemingly different worlds. And while I live the life of "Sempre Fixe" Marvin lives the life of "Semper Fi". When I ask someone "tudo fixe?" and hear their response, I say a prayer under my breath. And somehow it comforts me that, even though I cannot give my support in person, we are still connected.

Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two!

By AJ

When trying to think of a topic for this months column, I found myself skimming through accounts of women's travels to dig up some themes. Something that comes up again and again is outrage or at least incomprehension at how acceptable it is for men to be unfaithful to their partners in some countries.  I haven't done any kind of study, but from what I've seen and read, it seems like it's fairly common in Africa and Latin America.

Now, I'm not talking about the usual double standard; that a guy that gets around is a player whereas a woman that does the same is a slutty ho.  That still is fairly alive and well in the U.S.A.  I'm talking about an attitude that is so pervasive that, as a married man with children, your masculinity will be questioned if you do not have a few mistresses on the side.

Before I get rolling, let me be clear about what I am NOT saying.  I'm not commenting one way or the other on open relationships where all partners are in the know and agree to be open.  Purely from a public health standpoint, I will just say that great care must be taken (especially in southern Africa) because having concurrent sexual partners seems to spread HIV faster than serial monogamy (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/20/AR2007112001676_2.html). I'm also not in any way trying to excuse infidelity in a committed relationship.

What I am going to do in this column and the next, is to try to paint a picture of what this all looks like from a guys perspective.

Part I: Cherry Picking

As Beth points out in “Sexism and Candy” http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/15/sexism-and-candy/, there is sometimes a machismo that dominates male culture.  Sometimes it's strange how much resolve it takes simply to do the “right” thing when everyone around you says you aren't a man.
One day after school, Mr. Tshabang and I decided to go to the local clinic to try to build a partnership in the HIV/AIDS awareness campaign we were trying to start.  The clinic was located about 7 km from the school.  Fortunately we were able to get a ride from two other teachers, Mr. Ndlovu and Mr. Manchusi.  At the clinic, Tshabang and I brainstormed ideas with the nurses on topics such as condom distribution, testing drives, and educational talks.  After making a few plans for cooperation, we got back in the car and headed back towards the school.  After a few kilometers, we diverted off the main road and pulled up to a house.  Ndlovu got out and with a big grin said he'd be back soon. Manchusi joined him as they went inside.

Tshabang and I sat for a few minutes of awkward silence before I finally asked what exactly was going on.

“Ndlovu is visiting his 'cherry' in there.”

It took me a few seconds to make the connection and then it dawned on me.  'Cherry' is a slang term for a mistress.  I knew all of these men were married and had children, but were now far from their families because of work. Such is the nature of the South African migrant worker-based economy.  Mr. Tshabang waited for a bit before speaking again.

“You know, I really don't agree with that type of behavior.”

“I'm glad, Mr. Tshabang, because neither do I.”

In that moment of solidarity, Tshabang opened up.  Almost all the male teachers had several “cherries”, some of whom were students.  When he'd joined the school a few months ago, they had tried to pressure him into taking a few of his own.  He'd resisted and as a result had been ostracized.  He was here, in the desert, earning money to support his wife and children, over 700 km away, and the colleagues who should have been his support had pushed him away.

Mr. Tshabang is a thin guy. He is even skinnier than me.  But as I would learn over the years, his slight frame contained an incredible character.  He had a powerful voice, and would MC school events of hundreds of people without a microphone.  His legs may have been wires, but he could run like the wind.  And he had unshakable moral fiber and resolve.  He became one of my closest allies and trusted friends.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be the exception rather than the rule among the male teachers.  Even I got some of the pressure. Every month or so, somehow my conversations with Ndlovu would get to the topic of my love life. Having a girlfriend at home had not been enough to satisfy him. I had to have something going on locally.  One day I finally got him off my back.

“So tell me KB, how are you taking care of yourself?”

“Well, I exercise every day. I eat well and make sure I get a good night's sleep...”

“No no, I mean, how are you taking care of yourself?”

“I'm sorry Ndlovu, I don't follow you.” (The standard, play dumb strategy)

“You know KB. A man has needs.”

“Oh, you mean masturbation?” (The standard, make him really uncomfortable strategy)

“No! No more talk of masturbation.  You know it's only natural that a man has a woman somewhere. It's how nature works.  All the animals do it. When the lion is hungry, it must eat.”

“You know what the difference is between an animal and a man?  An animal is driven by its desires, its hungers.  A real man can make choices and be driven by principles rather than desires.” (I do realize that this statement is not entirely accurate for animals, but it served to make a point)

“Is that so?”

“Yes it is. So which one are you?”

With a laugh, Ndlovu quickly left the room and never brought up the topic again.
As I mentored the young men in my camps and classes, I could see some of them torn between what they thought was right and what the popular culture was telling them was right.  Tshabang and I tried our best to provide an example, but we were vastly outnumbered by the Ndlovu's.

I sometimes think that there needs to be a “men”ist movement.  Feminism has done a tremendous amount to raise consciousness in our society, and in particular to empower the women of today.  (There is still much to do on this front, as I'll discuss next time.)

For true equality, there must be more than feminism. There must be a substantial change in the culture of manhood that pervades most of the world today. I'm not talking about an emasculation as my male opponents might cry out. On the contrary, I'm talking about being a real man.

[Note: The incidents listed above are as accurate as I can recall.  Only the names have been changed, not because I want to protect guys like Ndlovu, but because I don't want to compromise the ability of future volunteers working at my site.]

Kites

By Beth

My boyfriend Kilson and I are flying kites off of Ned's dock. It is a perfect day, sunny and, natural to any ocean environment, windy. We found a few kites on Ned's desk, a big rainbow one and a butterfly, and although Ned later tells us that we broke the law flying kites so close to the airport (so sue us), for now we take them for a spin.

We race to see who can unravel their entire kite string first. There are shouts behind us but we are not to be deterred. When the race is over (the winner is debatable- depends on who you ask), we look behind us. There are maybe 10 children crowded on shore, waving their arms, hoping to get our attention. "AMIIIGAAA!!!!" They shout. This is how you get someone's attention in São Tomé. You either "pssst" them, or you yell, "friend!!!"

I motion them to come closer. Do they want to hold the kites? They look at me in disbelief, then run over, scrambling past the house dogs, jumping on tables to avoid the terrifying beasts (in actuality these dogs are smaller than beagles), others climbing up sides of the bridge by way of the ocean. They all make it to the dock in record time, either looking at the kites above or gazing at the ocean below. Their clothes are torn. Their body odor is strong. I see that they are most certainly of the poorer class here. Some hold empty jugs, en route to a water source so that they can fill the jugs and bring them home. The kids are working but they want to play.

Faia comes outside of the house to see what all the racket is. I ask him if it's okay that the kids are on the dock with me. He nods a gradual, unsure consent. I suppose what I'm doing is totally out of the ordinary, but that's okay. I'm pretty used to being out of the ordinary at this point.
After playing for a few minutes of play, the kids look over to me. They ask me where I'm from. I tell them to guess. "Gabon," they guess first. I laugh, no.

"Cape Verde."
"No."
"Angola???"

It's as if these are the only countries they can think of, the very farthest ones from reality, and they're still African, prominently black. One child guessed Portugal. That was a good guess; the only non-African country suggested.

I thought it was funny that these children could only name African countries. And then I realized that they may not even know that there are countries out there where dark skin is not the majority. It's entirely possible that they believe that my skin tone is a rarity everywhere, in the whole world. And for this reason, why would I not be African? They know I'm not from São Tomé. I don't seem like everyone else in the way I talk or dress. But who is to say that I am not from Africa, which is essentially their world?

It was an interesting reflection that made me understand these children's enviable levels of both curiosity and acceptance. Perhaps so many children stare at me from time to time because they do not realize that I come from a country where my skin color is not abnormal (which is why adults don't stare- they know otherwise). Perhaps they think I am the same, an African, but that my skin is particularly different, due to some disease, defect, perhaps simply an unusual birth, like a person with dark hair and blue eyes, for example.

What happens when you are totally ignorant of the existence of another country, another world? These children don't shun the differences that come at them. They notice the differences, they recognize that they are different, but they still accept them as part of their own. I am not a foreigner. I am an African with a different skin color. Why would you possibly suggest otherwise?

It's a beautiful way to look at things. It's also a horrific lack of education. It makes me want to stay and do what I can to teach them about our world, which is so different than they may believe it to be.

Sexism and Candy

By Beth

At night I sit around with the boys and drink beer. We slap at mosquitoes while we chew the basics- soccer, women, who's talking about who. Most of the time I just listen; I have nothing to add to conversations like these. But this doesn't mean that the conversations aren't adding to me; I certainly learn a lot between the guzzling and spitting.

Like, for example, I learn that my boyfriend here, Kilson, is either a CIA-trained liar, or a really uncommon- and perhaps unpopular- catch here in São Tomé. Purely because he treats me like a perfect equal-- something that is quite out of tradition here on the island, where gender roles rule. Kilson and I get looks when we beat each other up in the city. He takes me on, anywhere, anytime.

We were walking yesterday, and between throwing punches he asked me if Faia didn't like him. Faia is tall, muscular, and a killer soccer player that hangs around the house to do Ned's gardening and to help him with some rehabilitating exercises, as Ned became sick five years ago and had his legs amputated. Faia doesn't speak much sometimes and doesn't shut up at others, is extremely, perhaps overly confident with his manhood, and, above all, will not let a women boss him around. He has a girlfriend, or perhaps a wife, or I'm not really sure what she is, that lives with him, though he's never home- he's always here, chilling with us. One time we went to swim in the waterfalls and he brought her. I think one point he touched her knee. I wonder sometimes what she is, exactly- either an accessory or a chore. Or some marvelous combination of both.

Anyway, Kilson asked me if Faia didn't like him. He was often quiet when Kilson was around. Kilson is similar to Faia in some ways and opposite in others. When Faia is quiet and judgmental, Kilson talks. He is always in search of an argument, and unafraid of confrontation. He enjoys understanding, in-depth, why people feel certain ways. He will talk to you for hours about politics, philosophy, secrets. When he enters a room, everyone knows him. He is quick to introduce himself to strangers. So when Kilson asked me if Faia liked him, it was curious. He really wanted to understand Faia.

I later brought up the subject with Faia, whose mouth fired off a mile a minute. “He asked you that without asking me??? If I were him, I would have just come up to the guy and asked him myself! What the hell is wrong with him! And FURTHERMORE, I would NEVER ask this question to a WOMAN! This is something man to man! The next time I see him I am going to ask him to tell me to my face!” It was such a needless overreaction that I am still enraged with Faia, hardly able to cool down, even weeks later. First off, I didn't want him confronting Kilson about this, who felt it was something to be asking me in private (I feel bad enough as it is revealing his words). And second off, a WOMAN???? And what the hell is wrong with a woman????

But I know what is wrong. To Faia, women are different. They have their place. Men deal with their man things in their man ways and women, among other things that do not include education, intelligence or thinking, make babies, grant sexual satisfaction and keep house. I'm not kidding when I say that this is what Faia believes. He thinks women are to be romanced for the sake of romancing...then nothing else. Otherwise they complain too much and they creep under your skin. He was raised this way; he can't help what he believes. It's a dying tradition on the island, but it's still real.

One time, Faia invited me to a party. He would never invite me as more than a friend- he's like my brother- but there is always a very low-grade tension between two heterosexuals of opposite sexes going out to a party or club together. And when he left to bring a friend home without telling me, and when I left because I was quite alone and bored at this party by myself, the next morning he was royally pissed. Apparently he had leaving rights but, as HIS guest, I did not. “Why did you leave?” He shot at me the next morning. “You came with me, you leave with me!”

The boys and I often find ourselves in quarrels because I tell them when I disapprove. They say I get angered easily. I take that for what it is. Though I find myself extremely culturally sensitive in most ways, feminism is not one of my negotiation points.

Dany is more modern and laughs at Faia's rugged lack of charm that, combined with a pretty face and nice body, dumb women put up with. But Dany still believes in what is very common here-- multiple girlfriends. Despite the boys' various attitudes about sexism in general, all three of them-- Dany, Faia and Abade-- are in equal agreement that it is entirely normal for one man to have three girlfriends at once, including, or not, the man's wife. Dany believes that if you can give all of your women love and attention, then there's nothing wrong with it. And besides, there are more women in São Tomé than men anyway. And if the women have a problem with it when they inevitably find out, they can leave. That is what their right is.

It makes me think of when Kilson takes me clubbing and leaves me for periods of time to go peel his female friends off the wall to dance. Kilson does not believe in polyamorous relationships but he does embody, in a analogous comparison, what Dany speaks of. Women line the wall of the disco with no one to dance with in a partner-dancing world. So the men have to walk around dancing with multiple women, a regular trick-or-treat, hopping from house to house to keep everyone happy.

It's the same thing really. If men don't date multiple women, well, who's going to date them? That's how the boys I live with see it, anyway. The women are sexy and beautiful, and are not to be wasted. The men, as I see their interpretations to be, are the intelligent, decisive keymasters, burdened by their inherent responsibility to make decisions for all and to ultimately keep the world spinning. And to some degree, the women believe it. That's why the girls in my English class still all failed their final exam- after getting a freebie when they skipped class on the first exam date. That's why I get mad at them and tell them to represent us right when they don't focus. And that's why on various evenings, when the beer bottles are empty and Abade is napping on the couch, I will see Dany spritz on his cologne and protectively wrap his arm around the waist of “minha jóia,” “my jewel.” And it's hardly the same girl twice.

Pills at the Bottom

By Beth

Today there are few turquoise pills in my little orange canister. My heart skips a beat. I can actually see to the bottom.

For many, the lack of pills could mean a few things. Maybe medication is over, a long rehabilitation process (yay!). Maybe it's time to buy more of your prescription (minor boo). Or maybe, as it is in my case, those pills are your daily malaria doses, and just a few left means you're leaving soon.

It is frustrating. There is still so much to do. Yet time passes and there is no stopping it. It is amazing how quickly a place that is so different from anywhere I have ever lived has come to feel like home.
I shudder at the thought of not having my homemade yogurt and papaya every morning. Not hearing the boys yell to each other

Me and the boys at the waterfalls of Bombaim

from different sides of the house about what women are the craziest, what beaches are the best, and who should stop sleeping on the damn couch and go to his own damn bedroom. The constant background murmur of Brazilian telenovelas. The fresh fish (aptly named “con con” because of the splashing sound it makes jumping out of the water and back in), breadfruit, fried banana.

Going to the little stand down the street for an enormous, cold beer after a long day. The raspy voice of my boyfriend, Kilson, yelling “Elisa!” on the other side of our gate as he waits to take me to the ocean, for a walk, for a snack. The warm ocean water as it soothes my body like an enormous bath the minute I dive in.

Having lunch on Ned's deck everyday, talking politics and current events while shooing away Fred and Jessica, dogs that could sure teach their peers a thing or two about begging.

View of the ocean from Ned's deck

Driving in Dany's car with his music pumped up, wind in my hair, bounding over potholes and dust-covered roads in our ever-powerful Toyota truck.

I'll even miss the things that drove me nuts. The lack of commitment. Ned tells me never to ask a Santomense a yes or no question, because they will always answer yes in fear of letting you down and then never go through with it (my USA friend Johnson says this is the salesman's golden rule, and something I should bring with me back to the States- never ask a yes or no question). The way Kilson and I make plans and he stands me up because he doesn't have gas or money on his phone, and the reverse way how he'll find me at work on days that I tell him I'm busy. The “pssss” sounds that come from men speckled on the street, trying to get my attention (which my friend Milton tells me only now that it is not rude or insulting like it is in the States, but just a simple way of trying to say hello to someone beautiful, and the correct response is to just smile and wave).

I'll miss the way the teachers at the São João school sometimes think I am all-powerful, full of money and able to grant their

Teaching class

every request at the blink of an eye. They know that I will do anything for them. I'll miss how teachers are allowed to show affection toward their students here. I'll miss being able to put a hand on my student's back when talking to him or her.

I'll miss the way an entire community takes unique responsibility for every single child on the island. How if you see a kid playing on a high wall, you yell at them and send them home, regardless of whether you know them or not.

And I'll miss the parties- the thick, hot Kizomba nights, swaying back and forth with the easy guidance of Kilson's hand as we take it to the dance floor, then recovering the sweat loss with Sagres, Super Bock, Sumol; meeting friends, and their friends, and their friends, and hearing the ocean crash not far away from deep Angolan beats that beckon us back into Africa's rhythm...

"Are Those Computers?"

By Beth
 
Kadema walks into the teachers' lounge, or rather a room just off the courtyard with an open space with grating instead of windows. Class is in session but today I am sequestered in the lounge with broken computers spread over the table. Lucky for me, and for these kids, these computers are fixable- they are missing programs, can't connect to the internet, only make sound for select programs. They are all things I have troubleshooted in the past and, with time, they'll be fine again. Today I call the lounge the "computer hospital". On Monday it will be the teachers' lounge again.

Kadema is the girl who broke her computer last week beyond repair. Today she wears a t-shirt that says "Happy Girls". It is pink.

Kadma

She walks in with hope in her eyes. I smile at her. I have already told you before that she is one of my favorites. She walks in and goes right toward a pile of boxes she sees in the corner. There are four of them, piled up. They have plastic over them.

"Are those computers?" She asks. She has been waiting all week to get her replacement computer. It is something that she has made up entirely on her own, the existence and coming of this "replacement", like the anxious expectation of a dinner guest. She is patient but eager.

I look into the corner where her eyes are fixated. The boxes, in big lettering, say "BISCOITOS". Cookies. I tell Kadma that those boxes are not her computer, and that she has to be patient because it might take a long time for her to get one. I encourage her to go back to the classroom and share with another student for now. She leaves the office.

Five minutes later I look up and I see her in the courtyard, outside of the classroom. She hasn't gone in. Instead she stays outside, tracing her footsteps, playing in solitude. She thinks to herself, looking up every so often to scan the empty courtyard. It breaks my heart. I motion her back into the teachers' lounge. I ask her if she wants to sit next to me today. She nods.

I let her play with one of the broken computers while it waits to be fixed. I help her locate Africa, then São Tomé, on a globe we find in the corner. And then, when the kids are outside taking pictures with their computers of each other laying in the fetal position for the articles they're writing about malaria prevention, she's running around with my digital camera, shooting the scene, documenting the work done by her peers. And she is suddenly the center of attention. She's the journalist; she's calling the shots. She has her own enviable position, her own unique role.

Today we have evaded the storm. But there will be tomorrow.

If you would like to help, you can donate to our cause at http://bethstepsup.blogspot.com. Every $200 we make can purchase another one of these XO laptop computers. The first one I buy is going to Kadema.

The pictures she takes, and those that other students take, I put on my computer. I do a little editing with iPhoto. I think maybe I can raffle them at a fundraiser to help make money for these kids. These are some of the pictures she took:

The Blessing and Curse of Light

By Beth

Miguel motions me over to him, just steps into the school's courtyard. I look behind me into the classroom. It is rustling with the activity of maybe 60 kids today, finding their seats, opening up their computers, blessed with energy for at least a solid hour and a half (though its existence is perhaps more jeering than helpful, as we have forgotten to get the power strips out of the Director's locked office, but no matter).

I leave the classroom for a moment. One of my students is outside. She is one of the most beautiful little girls I have ever known; long eyelashes and a really peaceful, friendly demeanor. Braided hair that stops at the top of her neck, bouncing with her steps as she walks or runs. When I see her outside of class I often wave to her. I love watching her face light up in recognition.

Today her mother accompanies her. She carries a baby in her arm. They are both dressed in clothing that is old. It falls off their shoulders; it doesn't really fit. It's dirty. It's not rags, per se, but it's not Armani. My student's clothing is always clean and fits her well. I had no idea that it was perhaps for a special occasion that she dressed like that. Her mother's face is young but worn. There is abundant poverty in São Tomé but there is still a difference between poor and really, really poor. And this family is somewhere in the middle.

When I come to this level of consciousness I then look at my student's face. There is some sort of white pus between her nose and mouth today. I hadn't noticed it because I had just assumed it was dirty little kid snot. But then I realize that it's an infection. An infection that can they can only hope will just go away on its own.

Her mother is here today to show us her computer. She was walking home from school and other kids started to rough around with her. They struck the screen of her computer, rendering it completely out of use. You turn the computer on and the screen lights up in what looks like a virtual bullet hole with shrapnel in streaming bits of color. It is unable to display anything else but these bright lights. The mother apologizes profusely, and the way Miguel looks at her I know that their story is true. They ask me what we should do.

I tell the girl to go inside; she can share a computer with her friend today. Miguel says that we will find the student that did this and deal him his consequences. But my heart still breaks. Our program is already short on computers, and there is no one on this island even vaguely able to fix the few that are broken. Which means, if a computer breaks, so does that child's chance to learn.

It's such a sick system. It's like telling starving children that break their plastic forks at a banquet that they can no longer eat. It's a cruel punishment for a child that had nothing to begin with. So close to Thanksgiving, I am thankful and also slightly embarrassed for all that I have. All that I wish I could give.

I think about my student, her long eyelashes absorbed in the haze of her small computer screen while sitting in some noisy shantyhouse in a still, energy-less night in the city. And then I think about how from now on all she can do is sit in the dark with everyone else.

The Letter of Two Years and Oh Yeah Dad

By Beth
This post is dedicated to my dad. Despite the fact that I love him dearly, I want him to know that, wherever he may be right now, his loving daughter is over in Africa waving her fist at him.

My dad is a very loving father that is wholeheartedly absentminded at times. He is good at hiding it, but he is also extremely good at forgetting the most important things. Like, oh, I'm sorry, I forgot that we changed your step-grandfather's funeral from a family kayaking trip to a traditional service. My two brothers and I showed up in bathing suits surrounded by ten other people in their Sunday best (epic fail). Or, oh yeah, I thought your stepbrother's wedding rehearsal dinner started much later, but I guess the flight tickets I advised you to get are going to make you miss it now (sigh). Might I mention that, when I was sixteen, my parents' divorce was also a surprise to me, only mentioned off-hand by my aunt while we were sitting at the kitchen table of our rented beach house:

“So your parents must be in court right around now.”
“What?”
“Oh yeah, they're getting divorced today.”
Someone had forgotten to let Beth know.

So my dad tries to video chat me when my internet is barely strong enough to load a page in under four minutes. When I talk to him, he asks if he can mail me anything.

I wish I could smile and appreciate the gesture. He really is trying to be a good dad. But the fact of the matter is, I'm on a very small island where both international snail mail and phone calling are extremely, extremely difficult and utterly not worth it. Letters can be delayed for as long as a month. And he knows this- I tell him every time I talk to him. And yet a week passes and he asks me again, as if I had never said a word – “Need anything out there, kiddo? I should've given you my water filter. Well, I can still mail it if you want.”

No, Dad, I do not want to be the crazy American that insists on filtering the water that is served to me by my American host (that is already boiled, by the way) as if I were out on one of our camping trips in the Whites. And even if I did want it, there is no way that it would arrive before I left the country. But yes, thank you for asking.

Well, Dany and I finally have supporting evidence of my frustrations. Because when we reached into Ned's mailbox the other day, we pulled out a letter mailed from Virginia with a birthday.

The infamous letter-- see mailing date stamped here

And this isn't just any birthday. This letter was mailed in December of 2007, making it officially almost two years old. It took two years to make it over to São Tomé from Virginia. I told him I could've delivered that letter on foot. He agreed. We stood for a moment in great awe.

Dad, this is why I don't want you to send me anything. Because unless you're expecting me to be back two years from now, I probably won't get it.

So this is all fair and good. The days pass and one night I develop some really horrible heartburn while I'm eating chicken and rice for dinner (weird...). I go to bed and the heartburn continues all night, and in the morning I wake up and I feel like I'm going to die (heartburn that feels like rocks lodged in my chest trying to fight their way out the fast way, stomach pain, killer diarrhea, general body weakness, and, getting into the evening, low fever). I examine my bottle of Doxycycline, what I've been taking daily for malaria prevention, over and over, scanning the directions that came with it. I've been using this stuff for two weeks now and the worst thing that I have encountered was a little stomach discomfort on the first day. Could it be the Doxy with delayed side-effects?

Growing up with a nurse for a mom, I normally don't worry about little things like this and know how to handle them. I got myself a few cans of Coke (ah, delicious Coke with real sugar and not high fructose corn syrup, how I miss thee in the States) to let flatten for drinking, and they helped loads. But seeing as I'm in a very poor country with a really bad hospital care system and am thousands of miles away from any good medical care, and seeing as this little bottle of Doxy says if fever should develop, stop using medication immediately and SEEK EMERGENCY HELP, I worry. The words “emergency help” do not ring well with me.

Phones here don't work- we know this already as so gently mentioned above- so I get on the internet (one of our home's many little luxuries) and find my friend Johnson, who calls the doctor that prescribed Doxy for me. I just want to know if it's possible that my symptoms are side-effects, or if they're something else. Their advice is to go to an ER, because there is nothing they can do from there. It is not comforting.

So here I am, sitting in bed, slightly burning up, with a core that hurts like the dickens, having to either shit or feeling like I'm going to vom every five minutes (making the toilet my new bff), and debating if I should actually make the trip to this “third world” hospital. The brain does crazy things when you're far away, and I panic, maybe more than I should.  Option A: I let this blow over and the next morning I'm too sick to be flown out of here and I die without ever seeing my family again. Option B: I stop taking Doxy to prevent what I'm feeling now but then I catch malaria; see Option A. My outlook isn't good.

I slowly walk into the living room where Ned is watching the news. I tell him how I'm feeling. He laughs and says he knows it's not malaria because he's had that before (what a bamf), so why don't I take this stomach soothing chalk-tasting crap and see how I feel in the morning?

In the morning I'm weak but better; weak mainly because the only thing I've had is a can and a half of Coke and anything else that tries to go down makes my heart flare up like the Fourth of July. But I know my fever is broken (the actual “breaking” of a fever is one of the most interesting sensations, and I really love it) and I'll be okay.

As the following days pass, I get stronger. It is only now, maybe 1.5 weeks later, that food is going down normally again (knock on wood). I'm perfectly fine.

I wait to tell my parents about the fiasco until after I'm better, wanting to be sure they don't worry like parents do. I mention to my dad over IM never to take Doxy and why.

“Oh,” he says, “I never take Doxycycline. I'm allergic to it. Your grandmother was too. She used to have to go to the hospital whenever she took it.”

My life is a game sometimes.

Current report: I'm still on Doxy and haven't had another episode like that one yet. And I figure that if I have to go through that again, at least I know it's not malaria and at least it probably won't kill me. So either I just had some weird temporary reaction, or it's an allergy I'll just have to deal with. Thanks Dad!  ::Shakes fist::

When WHITE Penetrates Mother Afrika

But perhaps I have jumped into things too quickly. I haven't really had much of a chance to explain that yes, I successfully made

Airport in São Miguel. Sort of classy for an airport, eh?

it though a wonderful week in the Azores (which I'm sure you all will hear plenty about, especially when I'm sitting in my lonesome back home in DC, whenever that is), arrived in São Tomé, learned how to type accents on my new computer, and, well, have just been having a heck of a time.
I took a plane from Ponta Delgada on the island of São Miguel in the Azores to Lisbon, then stayed with my cousins Marina and Sérgio and their adorable new bundle of baby, Santiago, for a couple of days. After getting a small preview of the awesome effects of Doxycycline if not swallowed under its very specific and rigid guidelines (I say "preview" because there was much more to come but two weeks later), I hit the airport again, bags ready to go, toting a spartan number of tank tops and shorts, a disproportionate weight of candy and books, and a really nice bottle of Azorean wine to give to my gracious host, Ned.

All this was in the forefront of my mind when we traveled from the little mini airport shuttle at nearly midnight towards our plane, an odd time for a flight and a totally disorganized system of boarding that even seemed a little out of the ordinary for Portugal, a country I once lambasted for its own lack of efficiency and charm. I couldn't help but wonder if Portugal and São Tomé were still on hesitant (if not hostile) terms.

My wondering was quickly floored by awe as we approached our plane, a once-a-week luxury of TAP Portugal, and, clear as anything else I'd ever read in my life, in letters the size of people, the name of the plane reads:

WHITE

No, this is not a joke. But you might think the following is: Below it reads:

Coloured by You

White, Coloured by You, courtesy of the White website- http://www.flywhite.eu

Good Lord, how I wish I could make this stuff up.

I could hardly keep myself from laughing. I'm sure people thought I was crazy. The plane is called WHITE? And it's colored by...what...a rainbow of singing, dumb Africans that somehow, at the right time, just showed up for the plane trip of their lives??

Well, what do you do?

You say, okay! We're getting on this huge, phallic machine called WHITE, and we're going to penetrate virgin Mother Afrika at 400 miles per hour.

My life in São Tomé has been peppered with little bits that make me laugh like this. What else CAN you do when a country's history of European control is so recent (they only became independent in the mid-1970s)? Not only this, but their whole home, their entire history began as an overflow zone for starving Cape Verdeans in an overpopulated island to contract into honest work, only to be deceived and thrown into slavery. How do you come to terms with that when it's something the Santomenses deal with every day of their life?

The STeP UP office

Among a few English classes, some translations, some great friend-making (I love standing out; I feel like people in the USA never remember my face but here everyone knows who I am) and other things, the thing that keeps me busy here (and what I originally arrived for) was to help an incredible NGO called STeP UP (São Tomé e Príncipe Union for Promotion) coordinate and work out the kinks of a very generous donation by the One Laptop Per Child Program to a local middle school in the capital. About 90 very excited twelve year olds were handed an amazingly efficient, durable, and inexpensive laptop computer that is complete with photo/video camera, microphone, a swivel frame, multiple USB ports and wireless internet access (you can buy one for yourself or any child for $250, and included in this $250 is the donation of a laptop to a child in a poor country as well- how about that!). I'm here to learn the OLPC platform and teach it to teachers and students alike, then facilitate a way for them to incorporate these computers in their everyday learning environment (both in school and at home).

Yesterday was my first day of class with the kids themselves. While we waited in hopes that the energy would turn back on

The kids wait for the energy to come back on in class. And go camera-happy while we wait :)

(something that is horribly unreliable and inconsistent, and often just doesn't work at all), the poor kids waited, say 75 of them, crowded into one classroom, for hours. I couldn't leave them there so I thought I would at least get their attention and play some games- whatever I could think of on my feet, really- 7 Up, red light green light (outside), and, my favorite, Hangman.

At least it was my favorite, until I suddenly wanted to simultaneously laugh and cry. Here I am, a white woman, of Portuguese descent nonetheless, teaching these African children a really great spelling game that incorporates lynching. I am certainly going to Hell.

Either the kids never picked up the reference, or someone Up There was on my side yesterday, because the kids actually loved the game and it occupied a solid 30 minutes of our time. But good grief, what a trip. I had played my own race card, and it was a wild card, and here I am in Africa, and, from now on, Hangman is going to be something much, much less violent.