Saying Goodbye

By Beth

December 17, 2009

On my last full day in São Tomé, the sun is blazing. My boyfriend, Kilson, and I spend the day at the beach, swimming off Ned's dock, taking pictures, dancing in the street to neighbors' loud music, sipping beers at a cafe strung with Christmas lights. From Ned's dock, sopping wet and in our bathing suits, we watch TAAG- Angola's airline- touch down on the runway close to Ned's house. Kilson's sister's boyfriend is on that plane and we take my motorcycle and rush to the airport, as do a couple hundred other São Tomeans.

And as I watch the crowd at the airport in the setting sun, I can't help but think about the fact that the next time I see the sun again, I will be in the very same airport, with my suitcase, leaving. Kilson is very good at detaching and putting on a smile so I don't know if he is thinking the same thing, but he must be. A knot forms in my stomach. On one hand, I have got to go back to the States because I have the best chance there of finding someone to finance more computers for the São João school. On the other hand, I can't bear to leave Kilson behind.

I have wondered if Kilson and my relationship is mostly enchanted by the new surroundings and the paradise-like atmosphere. That may have been how it began. But I also think I am just simply enchanted by Kilson, and the man that he is. So many times our lives in São Tomé have been a hindrance to our relationship rather than a help. We never have a place to go that is our own, for example. But we have survived it all and with flying colors, and now leaving a boyfriend behind is one of the hardest things to do.

My friend AJ tells me of friends of his that left behind relationships upon finishing the Peace Corps. When you're countries and countries away and not sure when you will be back, it's impossible to ask the other person to wait for you, no matter how much you want them to. Kilson and I only dated for maybe six weeks but he very quickly became my best friend on the island. Yet during the last two weeks, our relationship was very trying. We got into countless arguments. In addition to the fact that I was leaving, his sister was coming home for Christmas- the first time he would see her in nine years. I was hustling to get the computer program at São João minimally stable, writing guidebooks, meeting with teachers, writing grant proposals.Often we would start play-fighting...but then it would end up as a real fight. Both of us were about at the end of our ropes...stressed out of our minds.


But our last day together is perfect. We have both reached a level of peace with the fact that I am leaving. There is nothing we can do to stop it. And in this recognition the stress drips off and let ourselves enjoy each other. We fall in love all over again. We are done fighting with each other; for each other. We surrender our stubborn selves to the inevitable.

If Abercrombie São Tomé existed, it would be us in this picture.

The next morning on the plane to Portugal I rub Kilson's necklace that he gave me. It is a grain of rice that he got in Cuba with his name painted onto it. For four of the six hours of flight I write in my journal about him. I am not ready to get him go. When I arrive at my cousin João's house in the little town of Val Florido in Portugal, a stopping point on my journey home, João's wife, Elsa, offers me their phone. They say if I need to call my dad or anyone else, to feel free.  I call my dad but then I call Kilson. I hear his voice light up on the other end. “I'm so glad you called,” he says. “I've been thinking about you all day.”

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.

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.

Divine Intervention

By Ariana 

Travel journalists and bloggers spend a fair amount of time and detail describing the exotic places we’ve gone and the exciting adventures we had while we were there but we all too often overlook everything that comes between our place of origin and our final destination.  We assume that the airport, the plane, the boat, the train, and the bus are places of little or no consequence.  They are the places that should be hurried through on the way to our next adventure, an adventure which we can all be sure will occur in a place that is far more exciting than a bus terminal.  That is not to say, however, that these places of transition and modes of transportation completely lack any interest whatsoever.  In fact, one of my most formative travel experiences occurred in an airport.

Directly following graduation from college I went on a trip to visit Europe with my friend Elise and stay with her relatives in Italy and in France.  We were supposed to meet in the Washington Dulles Airport and fly to Italy together, unfortunately, all did not go according to plan.  Elise caught the flight to Italy but I got stuck in the Dulles airport because of a tornado (yes a tornado, I had previously thought that much like the rain in Spain tornados kept mainly to the plain, but I was, apparently very wrong).

I convinced myself that it was fate that I was stuck all alone overnight in Washington DC because of the flight that Elise made and I missed.  I decided that the obese middle-aged man sitting next to me on the flight to Dulles, the one who spent the entire flight edging closer to me (on the pretext that he was trying to move away from the stench emanating off of the man sitting in the window seat), might just be my soul mate.  He had, after all, offered to buy me dinner when we got off the plane, perhaps this was a sign.  But he was not my soul mate because the customer service line beckoned and, irrationally, I decided to turn down free dinner and drinks with my "soul mate" because somewhere in the masochistic region of my brain I decided that waiting in a line that spanned several terminals of the Dulles airport was, actually, preferable to a free dinner.

It was just as well, because while I was waiting in this aforementioned line I met God.  I suppose that was a very imprecise way of saying it.  Now you are probably expecting me to go into some epic conversion story along the lines of Emperor Constantine.  Or you will argue with the phrasing and try to convince me that it was not God who waited in line with me but rather one of his messengers.  Or if you are a skeptic you will try to convince me that it was merely a coincidence and that I attributed his presence to a divine power.  Or if you are particularly religious you might tell me it was nothing of the sort and that even thinking that I had met God let alone telling everybody about it is irreverent and disrespectful and I will probably rot in hell.  And you may be right and you can call it what you will but I will call it my meeting with God and it occurred at approximately 6pm on the 4th of June in the year 2008 in the United International Flights customer service line at the Washington Dulles Airport.
God was of medium build and he had a mustache (but not a beard). He was middle-aged and if you are the sort to care about

Sitting on Elise's grandmother's bed in Marina di Pisa, Italy, wearing one of her grandmother's classy 80s-style puff paint shirts

ethnicity then I will inform you that God was Sri Lankan.  God and his wife and two daughters had missed their flight to India, which meant that they also missed their flight to Sri Lanka. God was (as you would very well expect him to be) incredibly profound. He was very calm.  God was (also as you might expect) the only person in the line who wasn't bitching and moaning.

His argument was that he would get there eventually, but there wasn't anything he could do to make himself get there faster so why bother getting all worked up about it.  I felt like God definitely had a point there.  As I stood next to him in line I had this strong desire to be more like him.  I decided that from then on I wasn't going to try to fight the divine will, or luck, or fate, or whatever you may call it for control. I was just going to float and see what happened and just have faith that things would turn out all right in the end (which is not really a departure from my previous belief, but this God in the customer service line just sort of reaffirmed it.)

When I finally arrived at Elise's grandparents' house in Italy without my baggage, I heeded the lesson that I had learned fromthis travel God.  I didn’t allow my lack of luggage spoil my trip.  I merely wore Elise’s grandmother's clothes (which were frightful in a hilarious sort of way) all around Pisa.

The Catalan Coincidence

By Megan

It's been 16 months since I left Barcelona.  I was pulled back into the US to finish my college degree and by a curiosity for the adventure that would be the year following graduation.  I had accomplished my goal of having dreams in Spanish and traveling to wherever my feet felt like taking me.  It was a glorious year of discovery and exploration that had to end, but there is still one connection that keeps me part of Catalunya- let's call it, "The Catalan Coincidence".  Whenever you least expect, a Catalan encounter will take place. (Below photo by Alejandro Gamboa).

For example, this past week alone, I had three people ask me if I spoke Catalan- una mica.  And in a choir rehearsal, I had to read aloud the pronunciation of a Catalan piece so that the aquesta's, nit's, and deu's were in order.  In Berlin, a bike tour I took in Spanish was lead by a Valenciana (a woman from the region of Spain where they speak a Valencian dialect of Catalan).  But the most clandestine 'Catalan Coincidence' I've ever come across was in Milan, Italy.
My travel bud and I arrived in Milan late on a Thursday evening- the plane tickets were a steal, even though it was a late arrival flight.  We soon realized that the bus we planned on taking into the city was going to drop us off in a part of town we had not researched; this meant that all of the hostels we had looked into were on the other side of town.  We didn't have a proper map, it was past midnight, and our knowledge of Italian was limited, to say the least.  A familiar, uncomfortable feeling of doom started to roll over us as the bus made it's way into the city.
Suddenly, through the waves of anxiety, came a sound familiar to any well-immersed Barcelona study-abroad student: Four catalan women gabbing loudly, while on vacation.  The strong t's and squished together ll's sounds like a lullaby, especially when they graciously lead us through the streets of Milan to a relatively inexpensive hotel where they had rooms booked.  It was a god-send at 1-am in the Italian morning to two lost travelers.  Without our Catalan guides, we would have had no idea where to go- but fear not, the Catalan Coincidence brought forth four beaming rays of light.  Bona nit's and gràcies'  later, we had been saved.
Il Duomo and gnocchi made for a fine day in Milan before we said 'adéu' to the city and our Catalan guides, and headed for Venice.  In short, Catalan will find you no matter where you are or what you are doing.  It might come in the form of petons from a friend, or a protest that throws your thoughts back to fellow students from the universitat.  Embrace it and it will ignore you with love.

Next week:  A Go-Girl Guide to Hostels

When the Going Gets Tough...

By Erica

End of April, 2007: the end of the shittiest semester of my life. In the past four months, I've practically given myself Generalized Anxiety Disorder, lost one of my best friends, jeopardized my relationship with my partner, cried myself to sleep in the evenings, been unable to sleep through the night, and dealt with the seemingly constant onslaught of questions. Where will I go after graduation in a year? What do I want to do with my life? Where will I be this summer? What will I be doing for work? How will I pay rent? How will I get anywhere? How do I expect to survive if I don't go for a Master's degree? When am I going to visit everyone I've ever promised to visit, in spite of my financial limitations? I've reached the point where every day is horrible, every night is worse, and I don't see how it can possibly end. What I need is a break, a chance to run away and start it all over again.
I grew up traveling, really. My parents ensured that I was used to flying, driving, and busing at an early age- my first "vacation" on a plane happened when I was 10 months old- and when Dad's conferences and trainings took him around the world, he took the rest of us with him. Other kids grew up dreaming about visiting far-off or exotic lands; I grew up actually going to them. My first transatlantic flight took me to Australia at age 7, where I trekked through a tropical rainforest, BBQed under the stars in the Great Australian Desert, and learned to play the didgeridoo. Each time I stepped into the airport, lugged my stuff onto a plane, or even snapped a luggage tag neatly around my bag handle was the beginning of an exciting adventure. To this day, the prospect of traveling, especially on a plane, is irresistible. The moment the plane's wheels leave the ground and we begin the steep climb up into the atmosphere, something inside me changes and loosens and is left on the ground below. In high school, bored with the rural area I lived in, I dreamed about putting a few necessities- contact lenses, toothbrush, change of underwear- into a bag, climbing in the car, and then just driving. Going somewhere, anywhere, that was far away and where I could start over.

This spring, all I want to do is fulfill that old fantasy. I want to fuck school, fuck obligations, and fuck emotional ties and just get the hell away.

Serendipity strikes one day, just as I'm packing up to head home for the unplanned, terrifyingly uncommitted summer ahead. I get a message from my old supervisor, offering me a temporary job at her organization, and it doesn't start until June. At the same time, a request comes in from a collective in Toronto. They want me to come and participate on a panel about social change and engagement, at the end of May. Suddenly, the next three weeks begin to take shape.

When I get home at the beginning of May, I start calling people all over the eastern part of the US and Canada. Hannah in Philly; Gayle in Plainfield; Liz in NYC; Jocelyn in Toronto; Lisa in Schenectady; Emma in Saratoga Springs. "Remember how I planned to visit?" I say. "How about I actually do it?" I'm still quite financially limited; all I can afford is the $50 plane ticket to Philadelphia. But that's enough to get me on the road. It's enough to get me the hell away.

I only carry two small shoulderbags, somehow managing to fit three weeks' worth of clothes and supplies therein, and two skeins of yarn that I want to use to expand my knitting knowledge. My passport, for the trip to Toronto, is tucked into a side pocket, and my near-worthless debit card is in my jeans. For the first time in my life, I'll be traveling without family and without heading to university. On one hand, that feels wrong: I feel like I'm too young for this. At the same time, however, I'm 20. I'm going to university in a foreign country. And, for the first time in my life, the one thing I need and crave more than anything is to be completely unfettered and alone.

My first stop is to visit my sister at her college. Mom gives me lots of hugs and kisses, hands me a bag of cookies to give Hannah when I land, and gives me that look that says that she's a little jealous. "Be safe," she says, "and say hi to Hannah for us!" Because at this point, we all know that Hannah's stressed. In spite of everything- finishing her first year, about to start finals, and living with the roommate from Hell- but she's got an air mattress and extra food on her meal plan, and she wants to see me, so we spend a couple of days banging around Philadelphia together. We goof off in a mosaic-tiled house called the Magic Garden, meet up with an aunt and uncle for delicious Italian food, and celebrate May Day on her campus. She introduces me to the Dean of Admissions at her school's graduate social work program. By the time I've decided to head to upstate New York, I've also decided that having any sort of buffer in my savings account is useless. Since airfare's out of the question, in spite of that leaving-the-ground good feeling, I start checking out Amtrak.

The next three weeks are absolutely liberating. I've got an idea of when I'm traveling to where- a few days in Schenectady, a few more in Toronto, then five in Plainfield, and so on- but the means are never certain until a few days before. Everyone's patient with me and my uncertain arrival times, and the fact that I look a little like a hobo. With no razors allowed on the airplane and no checked bag, I have no razors. My hair- chopped to baby-dyke length in the fall- is scraggly and threatening to mullet, I have no makeup, and the only shoes I brought are a phenomenally smelly pair of Birkenstocks. Every night I write in my journal, as I've been doing since I was sixteen, and every day my knitting grows more and more on the circular needles I bought in Philly. I have no homework, no employment demands, and no one's asking me anything about my future. In Schenectady I play with a four-year-old who's practicing her letters and teach her to make dandelion chains, and in the evenings, Lisa and I tell stories and decompress each other. Emma, in Saratoga Springs, is finishing her finals, so we spend sixteen hours a day at the computer lab. She makes graphics on the screens, I play B'loons until my eyes sting, and we break only to go to Coldstone for ice cream. In Toronto, it's 80F- somehow the spring is slipping by- and Jocelyn takes me around the University of Toronto's campus until I can hardly walk. Liz and I spend our time in New York City watching Scrubs; when she has a job interview, I walk around and around Central Park, watching the joggers and letting my mind drift. Finally, I go to Plainfield, and Gayle and I spend five days in the house my mother grew up in- a house I haven't been to in the seven years since my grandfather died. Gayle has to help pay for my bus ticket home when it's all over, because three weeks of Amtrak and Greyhound takes its toll on the student bank account, and before I leave she lets me use her washing machine and drier. And when I get home to New Hampshire, about to start work for the summer and register for the GREs and start grad school applications and research my thesis topic and all the billions of things I'd been weighed down by just a few weeks before, I feel better.

Obviously, the vacation isn't a magic pill. The things that were wrong before I left are still wrong. My friend and I never really speak again, I'm still under a lot of pressure to figure out my future, and my partner and I still have problems to work out. Going away for a few weeks doesn't really change anything you go back to, if all the things you left are depending on you to make them happen. But being gone for that time, being untethered and on my own, has been a literal lifesaver. For the first time since January, I'm sleeping consistently and without the soporific effect of tears. I can think about the future without panicking, and I'm even feeling comfortable with the idea of making decisions about graduate school and career options. Instead of waking up and hoping to cope with the day, I'm waking up and somewhat excited about what the day may bring. The trip's given me a chance to regroup, collect my thoughts, and restart.

For the first time in four months, I'm ready.