Faka-Snotty McCold

I live on a tropical island with beautiful weather; the temperature hardly ranges out of 60s-80s, which seems dream-life perfect. In the potent summer months of December-February, you can't get naked enough to battle the heat-- even in your own home, there is no Central Heat and Air, and most of us have (if any) only one fan...if it hasn't broken yet. If the sun weren't so tantalizing, it would be almost better to stay outside rather than in the confining walls of a house. It's beyond sticky. You breathe your own salty heat, and others, and it's ridiculous to take umteen showers a day, so stinking is part of life.
But now, it's winter. I love winter in America...and cold weather, so this whole break from summer is faka-glorious. You can walk through town and not have a back-pack sweat line on your shirt, swass* isn't a problem. (For definition of "swass", see the footnote...or think hard for a couple seconds and let your mind wander.)
And I do love this "cold weather." It's wonderful. I think better with this breezy air, and it reminds me of America how I left it. (Sometimes, I feel like when I go back home, it'll still be October 2010.)
But. I wake up in the middle of the night with my ears feeling as though they'll break off their elvish form, and my toes feel like little vanilla popsicles. I don't have a blanket on my bed (who needs a blanket in THE PACIFIC!?!), and I'm more of a "just sheets" kinda girl, anyway.
And this freaking cold. Week 4 of Snotty McSnotSnot will be completed tomorrow, and frankly, I am quite tired of this! I hate taking medicine, and the PC Medical Dr. said it's going around and will just have to run its course. Antibiotics are a possibility, but...ehh. I figured it would be over last week. It was wearing down, I was getting all the junk outta my head, so things seemed bright and shiny in the near future.
But today I'm that dazed, dramatically un-energetic woman from the Claritin commercials, where the bright sunshine not only pierced my headache, but seemed more of a dull, ugly sherbert color. (Ugh, pastels.) And the kids on their Mufti day seemed not as colorful, too.* (Footnote #2)
At work, one girl said, "Somfing wrong?" I said, "Oh no, I'm okay." She then replied, "Well, I know faces, and you look not so good."
I walked in a few minutes later--after she had brought me a delicious Tongan fruit drink (kola, sugar and water...it's like a lemony orange), and I came back for more. Two ladies instructed me to squeeze a bit of kola in the cup, fill it with hot water, and add no sugar. "Tongan medicine!" they said. We shall see.
Until then, I'm burning through cardboardy tissues faster than Socrates, the rat in my house, is burning through my garbage. Sigh.

*Swass: combination slang of "swamp-a$$" or "sweaty-a$$." I blame my entire softball career on such indelicate language!
*Mufti day: All students in Tonga have to wear uniforms every day, but on Wednesdays, they can wear their regular clothes (girls in skirts, though) so their parents can wash their uniforms. At high schools and colleges (which are the same level), most schools charge 50 cents for Mufti as a fundraiser for the school.

On the Weather, Blues:

For once, I am not jealous of the weather back home. It is cool, breezy, overcast, and rainy in Tonga at the moment and I LOVE IT. I don't winter to go away...ever. (December-February is WAY too hot here.)
So, dear friends, please don't die of heat exhaustion. I want to see you all when I get back for Christmas.

But the weather here makes me so reminiscent.
I love this weather. It's relaxing...unless I'm biking in the rain during lunch time, which isn't so relaxing. But the wind little fits of rain just make me want to cuddle with a cuppa joe, watch a movie, and listen to Billie Holiday while journaling. (I did all of this last night, by the way. And will probably repeat when I get off work.)
Lately, I've been thinking of Billie Holiday. The voice.
Billie Holiday is this mood for me. This cuddling sensuality type. Sometimes I'll spend whole afternoons just contemplating if I'd rather live in the 20s or the 40s (flapper vs. Jazz), or if I'd rather be Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald (still stumped on that one.)
In Tonga, most music is hip-hop, reggae (Bob Marley and marijuana grace many shirts these days,) Polynesian acoustic (my fav. here), or cheesy ballads (they love Celine Dion, Rhianna, and others).
So music is a safe-haven for me. Just to lose myself in a song, get caught up in all the vocal characteristics, the progression of instruments...
So here is a list of artists I'm suggesting. They've been on my Playlist the last 3 days:
--Billie Holiday
--The Blind Boys of Alabama
--Harlan T. Bobo
--Mumford and Sons
--Amos Lee
--Rachel Yamagata
--Ella Fitzgerald
--Joe Purdy

Now, pick one. Find a cool place. And just lay back, listen, and picture yourself on a breezy, overcast island sipping 'otai (an AMAZING concoction of coconut, mango, watermelon, and whatever other fruit they have,) and getting lost in Blues. That is happiness.

A Rat Chewed Through My Underpants

I knew this would happen eventually—not necessarily the holey underpants, but the rat thing. In ‘Eua, though I had plenty of annoying quirks in my house (like no running water for half a week or more,) I heard a rat in my walls maybe a handful of times, but I know there’s a rat (or two) in my house. I’ve had food missing (though no evidence of a rat like half-nibbled things or crumbs), random thick-ish poop that is similar to the gecko, but a bit different. And I hear rats in my walls quite often. I’m pretty sure I had one frolicking in my sink cabinet this morning, but I was too scared (and unprepared) to look.
But why my underpants? Is this rat trying to tell me something? I’ve been philosophizing. Here’s what I’ve come up with:
(Thoughts of a rat who chews through underpants:)
• I’m hungry, yo! Where is that bread you left out on the table the other day?
• You need to lose the boy briefs. So I ate them.
• It’s art. See how symmetrical this circle is? And the movement of the little holes toward the butt-pouch?
• I thought there was FOOD in that bag…not yo dirty draws!
• You let a rat in your pants! Hahahahahaha!
• You’re never at home. I get lonely.
• I lost a bet.
• What did you expect, your own Ratatouille?
Anyway, this rat is cheeky. But underpants are precious. Though I’m intrigued by this act of perversion, I must not stand for this kind of behavior. This Underpants-Eating varmint must die.

Predictions

--I will spend way more money than I intend in Nuku’alofa
*There is pizza and vegetables and wine here!
--I will be more grateful about vegetables than Ttap volunteers
*Good ol' lessons from 'Eua
--I will be hit by a car/truck/van/bus
*I drive on the left side of the road with Tongans who don't generally obey traffic rules. And in 'Eua, there WAS NO TRAFFIC. Turnabout? What's that?
--My hot shower will make me feel much more sanitary
*I'm sighing just thinking about my shower tonight.
--I will be busier at work and much more accountable for the I do.
*Yeah, NGO!!!
--I will go through an intense learning experience at TFHA and will probably find even more of a direction for my future.
*Writing/compiling a newsletter, projects about sexual health, etc.
--My weekends look more hopeful as far as activities
*Friends at a close distance, no awful hills to bike, extravaganzas, etc.
--My Tongan language skills will quickly vanish
*Everyone speaks English here.
--Internet will make me much more aware of the world and my friends/fam.
*And much more annoying since I'll blog so frequently.
--I’ll be constantly moving/redecorating in my house… but more moving furniture, since (re)decorating costs money.
*It's like a a Tourette's Syndrome tick. (How do you spell that?)

It's All Just Furniture

I'm a mover and a shaker, so don't be alarmed at all these faka-changes.
(**PS, don't be alarmed by 'faka', either. In Tongan, it's a prefix that pretty much means "like." It's a game with all PCVs...we put faka in front of any English word. My usuals are "faka-disgusting", "faka-what?", etc. But my new favorite is "faka-snap!")

Anyway, I've changed everything in this blog because a.)I was sick of the mundane title, b.)I've been wanting to use Sea Salt for a while now, c.)I finally have fast-enough internet to actually DO stuff on the blog, d.)and I'm completely obsessed with change. It was my favorite part of college, moving furniture, figuring out creative new ways to make the room flow.
I'm currently doing that in my awesome house (you know, the one with 3 furnished bedrooms, CHAIRS and furniture to actually be COMFORTABLE in, and... a hot shower!) I've changed furniture around, sewn curtains, rearranged other curtains, put up pictures, taken down/moved maps (the hallway was literally a big smorgasbord of maps), etc.
And since it marks the beginning of a new PC experience, I just needed to change things around. The only thing I'm hesitant about is all the blue. It's probably my least favorite color other than pastels and pink, but I can't have a Blog Title like that and not use shades of blue. Oh well.
Anyway, so here is my new space. I've also added some new little features, like the number scroll thingy that counts how many times the site has been visited. I must say, I'm quite impressed. Let's keep it going! :D

Thanks, dear friends.
Cheers to you.

Fetongi (Change)

I just finished a delicious Chinese soy bean drink after spending $100.
Let's reflect.
In the Month of May, I spend $86. Total. And in an hour, I spent $100. Counting the Soy Bean goodness, it's obvious: I'm in the capital.
Not only that. I LIVE there.

I am the new Gender and Development (GAD) Coordinator for PC Tonga! I am working with Tonga Family Health (basically Plan Parenthood...which is awesome), and will be the head hancho for Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). There are other responsibilities including health projects and other gender-focused projects, but that's the low-down and I am TOTALLY EXCITED!

So what happened?
I loved my community in 'Eua...I became integrated with more families, loved all my students, and liked my house and location...but school was a problem.
As a volunteer, I am placed in a school/community thatis willing to support a volunteer, but who needs the volunteer's support in some way of improving life. Mine was in Education. So I taught English, worked on the library, and tried to work with my principal and counterpart however they needed help. But I was playing tug-of-war when the other side of the rope was vacant. (Technically, I don't think that makes sense, but I like it.) My teachers were extremely nice, but the willingness to support me was...unclear, nonexistent, and slightly confused. Basically, they weren't prepared to meet the responsibilities and accountabilities of having a PCV, so things just didn't work out. It was a sad farewell with my students and community, but I am too excited about my new job to be too down about life.

So...YAY! More to come soon. Just wanted to update!

Universal Education: Deer Liver Epiphanies, etc.

Universal Education:
Deer Liver Epiphanies, Useful Childhood Memories, and Embracing the Po-dunk


Sometimes I’m hesitant in exposing too much detail about my personal life (which is legitimately shocking, since I often shout to the heavens about my bowel movements). But in my experiences with other Americans, it’s often hard to be taken seriously because I’m from a state that when pronounced, emphasizes any smidgen of a Southern accent. (Just try it. Ken-tuck-y. It comes out “Kinn-tuhhhck-eeey.) I did spend much of my teenage years neutralizing my accent as best I could—especially in college, when I realized that I judged others whose accent seemed incredibly Hillbilly to even me.
Luckily, Peace Corps has been much different. Some volunteers regard my accent as endearing or even normal, and I’ve stopped trying so hard to shorten my vowel sounds and annunciate all gerunds. Therefore, I’m more open with story-telling about living on a beautiful farm, eating pinto beans with pickle relish and cornbread (otherwise they taste like dirt stewed in a bellybutton), and my desperate urges for drinking tea the real way. Ice-cold and cavity-sweet.
Sometimes I think I even confuse people. I can weave a conversation with fibers of my trips to Belgium, Georgia Mud Fudge blizzards from Dairy Queen, Wordsworth’s poetry, my fear of pigeons, pitching college softball, and bottle feeding a calf in my childhood. Often, my fellow conversationalist will say, after playing the where-did-you-come-from game, “What do your parents do?”
Sometimes even I wonder if I was delivered by that cute stork or was perhaps a milkman accident, since my most bold and visible characteristics (flightiness, free spirited spontaneity, literature addiction, music preferences, and feeling unsettled with consistency,) differ greatly from my parents. It’s hard to relate lifestyles, but in the grand scheme of things, I got most of my character honest (and yes, I left out the ‘ly’ in that adverb to make a colloquialism.)
My dad has worked over 30 years in a factory, mows like his life depends on it, and manages a ginormous garden so well that even in my veggie-starved existence, I still turn up my nose at imported canned vegetables—those mushy, foul-tasting imposters. My mom is a high school secretary who missed her calling as the seamstress of my dream wardrobe and makes the best peach preserves you’ll ever taste. And whose lasagna makes Stouffer’s taste like moldy cardboard.
So maybe my own garden is still nonexistent (I lack my father’s persistence in starting tasks…and finishing them; what can I say, I have adult onset ADD!) But I’m a noted papaya jam-maker, a go-to cake-baker in my village, and, as I’ve recently discovered (which is the inspiration for this entry), my tolerance for handling raw meat is much greater than I credited myself.
Let me explain. I’ve been out of Clean Life for almost 9 months now, and in college, I rarely bought meat unless it was Albacore tuna packets or lunch meat on sale at Kroger. And in a culture where I can hear pigs being slaughtered and eat a chicken that probably annoyed me 2 weeks ago, meat isn’t appetizing to me. I don’t buy it, and I only eat it if it’s offered at the Sunday meal. If I’m given leftovers, I’ll use the cooked meat for soups or protein additions where my own lacking source comes from peanut butter.
In my recent delectable trip to Uoleva, the amazingly beautiful island in Ha’apai, I volunteered to skin and de-bone 4 kilos of chicken (thigh and drumstick attached on all of these) by candlelight, since our camping spot had no electricity. I was given a filet knife, a lamp, and a make-shift cutting board.
Immediately, my mind drifted to my kid-self squatting in the soft earth by a barn light just past dusk, when my dad had returned from a successful hunting trip. With my faithful dog by my side eating deer parts, my dirt-powdered hands poked at the deep-hued liver with a stick. “Look, Daddy! It’s like Jell-o!” I remember saying in my effortless country-talk. I never was a hunter myself, but I loved accompanying Dad on our outdoor dates through the autumn woods. I’ve always loved that wet earth smell, and didn’t even mind spraying myself with fox piss to keep my human odor from scaring off the future jerky and summer sausage. (Lord, my mouth is watering.)
Anyway, before I realized it, I was through two chicken quarters, reminiscing of Daddy-daughter dates in the woods and liver-poking extravaganzas. Suddenly I was surrounded by my PCV girlfriends, talking about how proud my Dad would be of my meat-cutting skills. A brief self-conscious moment left me at a pause, thinking of how I would possibly explain that statement…but I botched the hesitancy and started story-telling about deer liver and the beauty of juicy venison.
The funny thing? All the girls agreed. I wasn’t just a country bumpkin with jacked-up tales about playing with deer parts. It was a legitimately relative story. Within minutes we’d nearly completed a Forrest Gump Bubba- moment, when the shrimp farmer recites a lifetime menu of shrimp delicacies. (Deer steak, deer jerky, deer summer sausage, deer spaghetti, deer stew, lemon-pepper deer chops, etc.) Soon enough, my Maine friend and I were comparing stories when she found out I played with deer liver as a child. She began, “Oh my gosh, that sounds like me! I remember when my dad and brothers would hunt, and then there’d be a deer hanging from a tree, and…”
The stories lasted through four kilos of skinned, de-boned, fat-trimmed chicken pieces. After, we fed the bloody scraps to the dog.

Back from a Remote Island

After a much-needed 2 week school break (4 days on an gorgeous uninhabited island called Uoleva), I'm back at site and...not quite refreshed due to a severe head cold and, of course, vegetable shortage.
BUT things are pretty cool. I worked at the first Camp GLOW of the year in Ha'apai, where my 2 month training took place, and absolutely fell IN LOVE with the camp.
I tie-dyed my first shirt(s), played ukulele for the girls, watched amazing dances, heard (and half-understood) some wonderful strong Tongan women describe many issues and circumstances they have faced and overcome in a patriarchal society, danced with new GLOW friends, got little sleep, and then camped out and lazed on the beach after all was over. Sounds pretty amazing. Because it was!

So. Dear friends. My next blog will be much more fulfilling, but I must beg you to check out the Peace Corps Partnership Program website to fundraise for the first Camp GLOW in 'Eua in september.... we need about $2600 and are getting a bit desperate. So if you can forward mass emails or ask co-workers, church groups, or any circle of friends (especially feminists!...haha) if they are interested in donating, your effort can help us make the first camp in 'Eua exactly what it needs to be: empowered by encouragement from those who give the support to girls who don't get encouraged very often.
Please and thank you!

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.donatenow&keyword=Kilchenmann


Cheers and blessings,
Jamie