My broken body lays still

Not only is my computer not functioning (Cinza chewed through the AC adaptor cord), but my pin drive decided to just stop working. No available information or access to producing that information for Courtney. This serves as a small part of my explanation for not updating sooner, as what I did type up is trapped on the pin drive that won’t release its treasure. The other part is that these last few weeks have not been fun for me, very emotionally challenging. This reduces my motivation to rewrite what was written and fill in events from the last month. As a brief list: I camped with a bunch of Cape Verdean friends on a local beach you have to take a small rowboat to get to, there was another festa in Assomada (every town has their own saints day, so there are parties literally every weekend somewhere on the island) and a festa in Orgãos at which I helped run a booth and sell chicken, my cat has so far chewed through two sets of cheap Chinese headphones and a bag of chocolate cookies I had hidden, Alex (the transfer that shadowed with me a couple months ago) is officially living in Assomada now and working with Mel in the protected areas, I have given up running and am starting to lose all motivation for any form of exercise, I have been helping paint the Center, making stencils of bunnies and hearts and flowers and such, and I will officially be helping out with the new group’s training for most of the month of August. I think that’s about it for now. Enjoy the following journals, which will likely be depressing. Sorry about that.

5/10/07

Today I am broken. Crestfallen, crushed, split wide open, and honestly admittedly so. Too many trick mirrors surround me and deceive what I’m supposed to believe and expect to be true. I looked around me today and found nothing that made me feel confident in myself. Instead hundreds of tiny unimportant things reminded me of how I don’t fit into anyone’s standards, superficially or otherwise. I sweat because it’s hot, and subsequently smell because available deodorant here is like expensive water on a stick—not at all functioning. My white feet get dirty because of the moisture mixing with the constantly swirling dirt in the air from the returned bruma seca that worsens my recently-acquired asthma, leaving me breathless, sweaty, and smelly. I am fatter because the only thing in my life that can remain under my control is whether or not I get to eat peanut butter on bread when I get home from an impossible day of 9 to 5 first-world-looking-yet-third-world-feeling hell of needy and neglected little girls. My hair is a frizzy, sticky mess that I’m tempted to shave off if not for the teeny piece of American vanity that underskirts my desire to cast off all traces of appearances. Also inhibiting the desire to cast off is the fact that here I am expected to look good, presentable, clean, professional, virtually 24 hours a day. No wrinkles, no dirt on the light cream pants, no sweat on the recently acne-laden skin. So even if I could affirm within myself to eliminate vanity and certain standards of “cleanliness” and no longer care what I look like, the place in which I find myself doesn’t allow it. I am in Africa yet I’m not in Africa. I’m in the developed world yet I’m not in the developed world. I can walk for twenty minutes and reach villages where there are no bathrooms, no electricity, and no running water, where there are families of at least 9 barefoot, hungry children, and to whom education still seems an abstract irrelevance. I can then walk the twenty minutes back into a community in which dress of the business casual nature is a given, coffee breaks and shoe-shopping trips are essential (to “de-stress”), and no one questions the brilliance and glory of traveling to Portugal or France, and perhaps not returning. How does one balance out the weight of two imperfect worlds in a young idealistic mind? I am living two realities at once, often enjoying neither. In the US, you can get away with easily ignoring the existence of an underdeveloped, starving, and neglected “third world” (no longer a PC phrase, replaced by…?), and perhaps in that starving and neglected Country X you can get away with ignoring the fact that mP3 players, laptop computers, and Tivo to save all the mind-numbing nonsense exist. Perhaps one or the other could be conceivably satisfying on its own, depending on what it is you want or need in life. But here you have both looking you in the eyeball day in and day out, unable to escape the simultaneous existence of both worlds, each demanding of you what the demands of the other contradicts. This is life in Cape Verde.

It is commonly accepted that there are two differing perceptions of time in the world, one quite calculating and the other quite immeasurable. A friend recently told me that here, they each exist, though the latter exists under the restrictions and confines of the former so that the power-holders that define the time choose whether or not time should be measured today and how. So you’re never quite sure if today, for this meeting, 15 minutes equals 15 minutes, or if 15 minutes will equal 2-3 hours. You’re never quite sure if when told to appear at 8:00am, showing up at 8:30 will be 30 minutes late or 2 hours early. The regulations of the two intertwining standards of existence don’t always communicate, to the extent that you sometimes feel as though you’re playing a game in which the rules are being defined as you go. Everything remains picture-perfect on the surface, I continue to be a member of the Posh Corps, there appear to be multiple opportunities and a comfortable lifestyle, and rapid development seems to be “working”. Carefully lifting that top layer of perfectly-laid paint reveals the mess that the PhD-ed team of painters hurriedly neglected at the outset.

As an average individual, I would find it difficult to adjust and balance out this complicated, ethically-challenging lifestyle. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, multiply that difficulty by ten (to remain moderate) as you realize that you are laboring (blood, sweat, and tears) for what looks in all ways, shapes, and forms like a “real job” while receiving zero of the benefits of said real job. No pay, no recognition, no acknowledgement of the difficulties you are facing as you may receive if viewed as an actual employee. The 9 to 5 without the advantage of built-in stress relievers available at home. Can’t go out for drinks or run to the gym or be anywhere alone at night. Being a Volunteer elsewhere may involve a certain level of ambiguity, undefined and wide open (a whole other set of difficulties); being a Volunteer in Cape Verde is like working for free at the UN. Expected to look and dress well and maintain a certain lifestyle and all its self-enhancing delicacies while not receiving the means to do so. Peace Corps pays enough: anyone who is frugal and doesn’t drink like a fish can easily more than get by. But not enough to make dress-buying trips to Praia with colleagues who hem and haw about buying last-minute vacations to Portugal. They can do that—they work intensely without stop and have paid their educational dues. But where does the Volunteer fit in?

I asked myself today what was keeping me here. My blank eyes glossed over and all I could come up with was the necessity of writing a thesis, 38 young girls’ faces, and a vague sense of responsibility or honoring commitments. Those things will probably keep me here. Probably. Oh and the useful experience and insight I’m gaining for my professional future are immense. That will help. But as an emotional, feeling, caring individual, can I not ask for more? I could commence an increased level of selfishness to preserve sanity and hold on for the remainder of my service; that will also help. But when you’re losing sense of self, how do you become selfish? I know my self as defined by my culture, my self as defined by other cultures, as defined by Dona Zuleica down the road; but where the freedom is to redefine my self according to me I have yet to discover.

Today at lunch I was told by my counterpart (Ivete), the psychologist (Ercília), and the Center coordinator (Andreia), that all three plan to or would like to leave their jobs within the year. The former two have applied to other jobs, and the latter is keeping her eye out both here and abroad, none of them able to handle the underpaid, undervalued, and under-supported job of defending and protecting children in Cape Verde any longer. The three pillars on which the Center and the girls it houses rely will likely be removed in one swift swipe of the life-sucking arm of ICCA. Bureaucracy prevails once again. What will motivate me once they’re gone?

I don’t know anymore.

I may remain broken, crestfallen, and crushed a little while longer.

Sometimes the hope of a “fresh new day” just isn’t enough anymore. Life isn’t magic.



5/14/07

I have a lot of potential hobbies. Endless things I would enjoy doing if the time existed. Whenever people used to ask me what my hobbies were (or when they do now), I would stop and think, coming up with a few general things—reading, writing, singing, listening to music, hanging out with friends (not really a hobby)—always wondering why I couldn’t come up with any “real” hobbies. Now I see. It’s because I have never had enough free time to truly develop a real hobby. Here is what I would like to do if I had abundant time to explore the world of alternative pleasurable activities: Establish a painting room (preferably with a huge picture window providing light and inspiration) and paint whatever I want; build up a music studio to record songs, just for fun; learn to play guitar and add that to music-writing abilities; learn to play piano, add that on too; refresh my photography knowledge and skills and make a dark room to develop all my photos (this maybe should go first on the list, I really want it); learn how to garden and take care of plants so that anywhere I live is always green and colorful (this one’s less likely, I tend to forget to water things and kill them); save up and buy rock-climbing equipment so I can make my rock-climbing way around the world trying new feats; learn how to snow ski and/or snowboard (save and buy equipment for that too) and finally take advantage of the wonderful Northwest mountains; learn—truly learn—the art of yoga as it ties to its original purpose (i.e. no workout tapes led by a buff, blonde American); take up tae bo; buy a bike and take biking trips in different parts of the world; make camping on the beach into a hobby; learn really magnificent salsa dancing to add to the made-up salsa that takes place in my room; buy a 4-wheeler and take it wherever they’ll let me; gather materials to make various types and styles of jewelry to give to family and friends around the world; learn to make mixed drinks and build up a wet bar in the house so I can have house parties with drink themes (I know, this is starting to get out there); learn how to hanglide and find new heights to leap from. I think that’s about enough for now. Not having a computer or any other technology makes all these things seem so possible time-wise, having eliminated spider solitaire and excess working at home. However likely none of these will happen while here in Cape Verde for reasons of the following nature: no money, no free time, no resources, no snow, no one who knows how to do 75% of these things who can teach me, minimal access to vodka, no pianos (that I’ve seen), and land that doesn’t like to grow things, much less things I try to grow. So I guess I’ll have to wait until the fictional point in my life at which these things suddenly fall perfectly into place. Here’s hoping.

5/17/07

Just a note to say I’m struggling through. Not to say that I’m a chipper little squirrel, nor to say I’m a raging, depressed lion (or something…). Just that I’m making it through. I hold on to future hopes: Paige coming in August, Mom coming in September, Dad coming in October, new PCT group coming in July and either making my job easier or much more unbearable (thanks to Peace Corps, not them). Things are coming. Hopefully they are enough to keep me going, besides the fact that I’ve committed to projects that people would like to see done. I.e. my thesis. The photography project. The income-generating hat making project. The volunteer corps at the Center. All things that are highly involved, daunting, and that have the ability to instantly drain my energy just seeing the words printed before me.

Well, anyway, I suppose I just wanted to assure you all that I am not done yet. Nor have I given up hope or admitted defeat. I’m just tired and cranky and in need of inspiration. It’s a little extra hard when virtually no one you work with likes their job. The Center is so unsupported, underappreciated, understaffed, and underpaid, and 50-75% of the staff it does have doesn’t like children, so it makes for an uninspiring work environment. I see it in their eyes, in the weary smile of Andreia, in the almost capped out patience of Ercília, in the constant sickness and physical weariness of Ivete. Things have to change, and I just don’t know how. I feel as though if things don’t get better soon, the projects I want to do won’t be accomplished.

They started sending girls home. A few weeks ago, a girl that I really liked (but who most people didn’t because of her behavior) was sent home. On Monday, three more were sent home (this time I didn’t even have time to say goodbye). Tuesday, we took two more home to Tarrafal. Another girl we tried to take home, but her dad wouldn’t accept her, so she’s back here with us. One more is heading home soon, and of course there’s Aracy, still waiting to be sent to Fogo, reminding us every second that she shouldn’t be here. It’s depressing and eye-opening—sad that we don’t have the means to deal with some of these potentially successful or well-meaning girls, and reminding us of the fact that things need to change, the structure and dynamic of the Center needs to be re-evaluated, or no one will survive here, and they’ll end up shutting it down. Maybe with some of these girls gone, the attitude and environment will shift enough to give everyone a little peace, but it’s not really a solution. Maybe if people end up leaving their jobs, great people will come in and shake things up. But the three pillars were pretty great and will be likely impossible to replace. I speak as though they’re already gone, but really it could be a little while. Gotta think positive.

One comforting (or disturbing) thought is that just about all of the other PCVs here in Assomada (and I’d venture to bet on other islands as well) are equally as dissatisfied. So generally our moments together these days become large bitch sessions, chances for us to share how much our lives suck. So uplifting:), haha. Really, though, we know that it could be much worse, and for the most part we know that it will get better, but there are just unique difficulties that come with working in Assomada. So few positives keeping me here at the moment.