Photos of Bonga Bonga

If you click on these pics they get bigger.

Or if you want to skip my narration below you can view the whole album here:

Visit to Bonga Bonga

This is the main road, the good road, to Bonga Bonga from the airport.



This is the rest of the road.



The view from the road.



More view.



My dad is not happy that this animal is standing here. He attends to him briefly.



I am sweaty walking to Lumbukuti to go see the other volunteer on my island (it took an hour and a half).



Friends in the road!



I am standing at what will be my front door.



Where I was staying...with my host mama. The tin flap scary window is on the other side and has since been fixed.



Breakfast.



My mama made this in a day.



My host parents...

In the Still of the Night

May 26, 2007 12:51 a.m.

I sincerely hope that at a certain point in my stay here in Vanuatu, going to the bathroom will not be such a newsworthy event. As it stands now, that is not yet the case. For the time being, this is a story about a dog called Brownie.


Those of you that know me well know I am not much of a dog person, which is a bit odd because I have grown up with dogs all my life. I was born into a family of dog-loving citizens. Alas, I appear to be missing the gene.

It’s not that I am opposed to dogs in principle, or any pets for that matter; I do occasionally find them amusing, but that periodic amusement is far outweighed by their need for care, for attention, for feeding and grooming and petting and regular companionship that I am just not interested in providing. And that was before, in North America, where they have vets and shots and heartworm pills. For those of you who are animal-lovers, and I know there are many, I shall spare you giving you an overview of a dog’s life in this country. Suffice it to say it is no picnic with few exceptions.

Nevertheless, adopting a dog is quite a common practice for volunteers here, and is generally recommended for both security and companionship. The security part I ‘get’ well enough, but frown dubiously when reminded a pet can really cut through the loneliness and isolation of island living. Personally, I’d rather play guitar than play fetch, etc with my free time.

Of course, it is still early. I have only been separated from other PCVs for two days. Though I’ve certainly felt my share of share of fear in this country, I believe the shock of true loneliness is still a ways away…

Brownie is a puppy, the offspring of a dog belonging to a current volunteer the next village over. Her dogs get very excited when they encounter white people, which is seldom, and apparently this trait has been passed on.

Everywhere I look I see Brownie, most often but not always with his partner-in-crime, a white kitten whose mother belongs to another volunteer I’ll be replacing here. The puppy and kitten always sleep together, cuddled up in a circle, and even I have to admit it’s pretty cute.

So, when I rolled out a pandanus mat to sit and read underneath the mango tree this afternoon, I had to laugh when the pair promptly followed me and plopped down on the mat.


Apparently, few are chosen.

Last night I was asleep by the respectable hour of 9:30 or so, but was up staring at the top of my mosquito net by 11. After forty-five minutes of contemplation, I ventured out into the night to the toilet and returned without incident. Nevertheless, it took me an additional three hours to fall back asleep. I feel a lot safer here on Tongoa for a variety of reasons, but I imagine your first night on a new island in a hut with three wide open windows (one of which is a large tin sheet that bangs against the frame every ten minutes in the breeze), might be challenging for many people. I’d also like to perhaps erroneously chalk up some of the anxiety to it being Day 2 of my mefloquine cycle - though, fortunately, the crazy dreams seem to be getting fewer and farther between.

But that was all last night.

So, why, exactly, was I ten times more anxious tonight, when I awoke at 11:46? This is, of course, after being sent to bed at SIX and falling asleep by 8. It’s hard to say. Maybe because I realized that the tin flap window actually faces the road. Maybe the wind is stronger. I think there are more rats around. A dog (probably Brownie) was barking and howling for what felt like an eternity earlier and I sort of wondered why. Maybe some nights will just be scarier than others.

In any case, I had to pee again (you would too if you were sent to bed after dinner at SIX) so once again me and my little flashlight and my probably-useless-completely-false-sense-of-security-Peace-Corps-sanctioned-personal safety alarm went off up the hill, to the long-drop toilet that has no door in front but three tins walls around it.

I could have sworn I heard footsteps, but as it was even less likely that someone would be walking around up there, up behind my host family’s house, then say, on the road or around my hut, it seemed I may as well proceed.

So you can imagine how startled I was when Brownie came hurrying into the bathroom while I was on the toilet, tail wagging, sniffing around on the ground dangerously close to the emergency pin on my alarm.

I had to laugh.

Brownie waited as I gathered my things. He led the way the first few feet and then hung back, waiting for me to pass.

And so, on my second night in Bonga Bonga, I have found yet another late-night escort to the bathroom, a puppy smaller than a soccer ball.

It is now 1:46 a.m. I hope I’ll go back to sleep soon. The fortunate thing about having nothing to do in a place is it doesn’t really matter if your sleep schedule is out of whack.

I may as well write about my day…I got up for good around seven, used yesterday’s water for a bucket bath because I was too shy to ask about getting fresh water. Of course, it was only partly shyness and partly just not ready to be ‘on’ yet as far as interacting with anyone. Also, as my standards of hygiene are plummeting rapidly, I can assure you that having a bucket bath with yesterday’s water is by far the MOST hygienic activity I have engaged in upon arrival, so in the end it’s just a matter of perspective…

I then had breakfast with my host mama, which was breakfast crackers in a bowl of hot water with skim milk powder and some bananas…*shrug* it’s kind of like a soup or hot cereal, I guess…

We then went down the hill/mountain to meet more of the village. Children stared and gawked and mothers yelled at them in local language to be polite and shake my hand (sometimes you don’t need to speak a language to speak it, you know?). It really is ‘subsistence culture’ here and that is by far the coolest thing. Ninety percent of the food comes from the garden. And everyone really does walk around gathering fruits and nuts as they fall off random trees. I have already clued into the casual custom of finding fruit, peeling it, and offering some or all of it to the person closest to you while not interrupting the flow of conversation. The nuances of such a practice I am sure I will pick up with time. For the most part, I was surprised at how healthy the kids looked here on this island, more specifically; how clean they were.

After we walked around and stopped by another house to find a woman playing with a baby (not hers) on the floor. The baby looked…well, startlingly normal…no visible sores and not even any puss or anything. She even had clean socks and a real toy rattle from a store. And for awhile we all passed around this five-month old playing peekaboo and I felt like it was just the most normal afternoon in the most normal place in the world. Later on, I met her mama was is most certainly a few years younger than me, and I couldn’t help but wonder what this family had that was…different. How a totally normal, healthy-looking baby was just tottering about in clean clothes with a rattle. It is certainly not what I have seen up in North Efate, which is a far more ‘developed’ place for its close proximity to the capital. Soon I will be able to tell what is the norm here in Tongoa.

We walked back up to the house around 11, and as per usual, I was instructed to ‘spel smol’ which means go and rest for awhile; so I lay down for twenty minutes and then did some Yoga in my room until I was called for lunch which was Mr. Noodle with white rice.

Thankfully, my host mama here lets me wash dishes and help a little bit, so I feel more like a guest and less like royalty than I have in Emua. I was then instructed to spel smol again, and ingeniously (I think) took out letters, my journal, and a book to sprawl out underneath the mango tree - thereby giving my mama permission to leave me there and go up to the garden for awhile.

Five minutes later, a small boy with a toddler sister brought me a bowl of bananas and left.

I wrote. I read. I felt like I should be doing something, making more of an effort to go meet people but at the same time there is such a thing as staying put, biding time and doing what you’re told for awhile.

The mango tree turned out to be ideal, as people came and went on their way to the store. Those that wanted to linger did and others did not. My host father wandered by with a bush knife, checked in, thanked me for a banana, and wandered away again.

Eventually the chief came over…a funny, intelligent, educated man who happens to be a retired primary school teacher. Our casual conversation managed to cover herbal medicine, the acquisition of multiple languages, the challenges of a money-driven American culture, malaria prevention, and his opinion of the real reason all these kids look so healthy.

“It’s the fresh air on this side of the island…from the ocean…and we’ve got all the hills so everyone gets good exercise…”

I press this issue, as it seems fascinating to me that this community could actually be healthier than the villages on the other side just a few kilometers away.

“But don’t they have the same hills there? And don’t they have the same breeze coming off the water?”

He shrugs, “They do..but…you know…trade winds…”

End of discussion.

Eventually he wanders away and I ‘help’ with the last of dinner preparation - squeezing coconut milk using the skin of a coconut to wring it out.

“This is our fashion here, on Epi they use only their hands..” I am told in a conspiratorial tone.

Dinner tonight is just my mom and me and it’s really good. Yams, snakebean, and green pepper in coconut milk. This is standard fare - but what made it really good was the snakebean, a local vegetable I happen to really like.

My host father who is like the acting chief most of the time, has gone for kava and a meal with some people down the hill. Apparently, he invited us to join him later but my mother told him we would go to sleep…which is how I ended up being sent to bed at six while she stayed up all night weaving a mat.

And now it’s 2:42 a.m. and the wind seems to have calmed down quite a bit, so there is less banging and rustling and scratching. I may even go back to sleep soon…`

Rained Out

Still in Vila.

Flight to Tongoa was cancelled on Friday.

Weather-permitting, I'll go on Monday.

Upon hearing this, I realized I had the choice between deciding to be disappointed or consciously viewing it as a surprise free vacation weekend in Port Vila and I decided on the latter. Because it's all just sweeter that way.

And indeed it has been.

:)

Weddings & Wokabaot

Mared - May 11, 2007

The album above is just photos...

When I find a way to upload the footage, I will. The files are too big for Picasa at the moment.

It is sort of funny that, as an aspiring filmmaker, my first 'gig' in Vanuatu has been recording a wedding. Some things are just the same...everywhere. But of course being able to film this stuff, especially their kastom ceremonies, means a lot to my family and the community and I am really excited about finding a way to get this on DVD for them. (This is sort of a hint to those of you that have any insight into how I can do this without access to equipment here...)

I'm back in Vila because I'm going to see my site tomorrow (in theory) for a whole week. This is of course, weather-dependent as flights in Tongoa are regularly cancelled when it rains. Which, is, like, often. But anyway. This is pretty exciting because it's finally the real thing. I'm finally going to see the place out of which I am supposed to make a home for the next two years.

I was originally planning on bringing an extra suitcase with me of stuff to leave there, just to have a bit less stuff to worry about hauling over. Thankfully, I ran into the volunteers I'll be replacing in Vila yesterday and they were like, "Oh, heads up - the truck is out of gas so the driver's off the island - which means it's a 2-hour hike from the aiport so pack light."

I find this hilarious.
Which is probably a good sign.

Of course, actually going through the process of hiking 2 hours through what is essentially a muddy, wet forest with a week's worth of stuff on my back in the middle of the day when the sun is strongest might not be so hilarious, after all.

But I sorta figure...it's actually a really great way to just...leap into the spirit of Peace Corps living.

Aside from the fact that it is a little...classier to arrive in the village on foot, as the locals would.

Today we went out and had a workshop in the community garden ("garden" probably gives you the wrong image and I will take pictures next time - really you need to imagine a massive forest where crops are planted) and then it rained really hard and I was really dirty.

The other day, as part of a training on how to install and use a satellite radio, I climbed up onto the roof of the Peace Corps office to install a solar panel...twice...in a sarong, no less!

Climbing on things and getting dirty makes me feel like I am gaining skills.

Perhaps that is just an illusion.

I will leave you with this image of the Presbyterian girls after church...



And then some other time I will tell you about my midnight jam session by kerosene with the Pentecostal kids and their guitars.

Life in Peace Corps seems to be getting better as time goes on, which is probably a good sign...

I'll keep you posted!

Yu mas danis olsem no wan i stap wajem.

May 10, 2007


Moments I Must Describe.

Apparently, there was an earthquake last night. Where was I? By my calculations, as apparently it happened around 9 p.m., I was either brushing my teeth or searching in my backpack for my new hair elastics. In other words, it was my first earthquake ever and I missed it. Completely.

I like to think of it as a metaphor for this whole experience…sort of an omen, if you will. A nod to all the mental drama that goes into preparing for the worst, cultivating the fear in your mind and in your heart and then…when “disaster” strikes, you find, well, you find it’s not really anything to write home about, so to speak…

I came home from the wedding early because I was strongly inspired to write about a number of things that happened there, but as it turns out now I’d like to write about going to the bathroom on any given night.

Coming home early meant assuring and re-assuring my Mama it was okay for her to stay. I walked the ten-minute walk to our village with a large group of PCVs and siblings. Another Mama had been ‘assigned’ to walk me as far as her house, at which point she subcontracted three teenagers to walk me the rest of the way. At the sound of our footsteps approaching the yard, my sixteen-year-old Uncle came out to let me in.

Then I went to pee.

Usually, it’s my eight-year-old sister’s job to wait for me while I get ready for bed at night. If she is asleep, it is either my Mama or Smol-Mama (which means your mother’s younger sister, only a father’s sister is an Auntie) who waits for me. In this rare absence of…anyone else, my Uncle & I share an unspoken understanding that it is his job to ‘stand guard’, which is sort of potentially awkward as the reason for the escort in the first place is to, in theory, make sure there aren’t teenage boys lurking while I’m in the bathroom…

In a split second of masterful decision-making, my adolescent Uncle plants himself firmly by the door that connects our outdoor kitchen to the outside world, as if he is guarding the entry to our property. Of course, circumstances are not nearly so dire, but it gives him a place to stand where me and the smol haos are in his direct eyeline, but he remains at least thirty feet away from the structure, giving me the utmost privacy.
It wasn’t so long ago that just such an experience, or, more specifically, the consideration of the perceived need for all of this…armour…would have me bolt upright in bed at least three times a night, at every sudden sound of a gekko’s tail against the tin or a hermit crab nestling into the coral at night. But that fear seems like a hundred years ago now.
Tonight, I just felt…comfortably taken care of.


Casually grateful, if that makes sense.

In the early days of Emua, when Things Still Went Bump in the Night, I never went to pee in the middle of the night because I felt so bad waking someone up to escort me, and spent many an early morning clutching my abdomen waiting for the sun to rise. One particular night, after a particularly harrowing couple of days for the whole community, I really just had to pee at 3 a.m. so I ‘sungaot’ for my Smol-Mama.


I will never forget the look on my twelve-year-old cousin’s face after he bolted out of bed, out of his room, and out of the house to see what was going on.
He was, quite plainly, ready to fight.

It was one of the most adorable things I have ever seen.


I want to backtrack for a moment and address something that probably isn’t clear to you and in truth, isn’t fully clear to me. A whole lot of all this pomp & circumstance, I believe, is not rooted in my family’s actual fear of something happening, but is mostly their solemn respect for my own fear and their commitment to making me to feel comfortable and safe at all times. The women in my house would certainly go to the bathroom themselves at night, but at the same time would never expect me to.

It’s sort of hard to explain.

It is probably not nearly as dangerous as it probably sounds, it’s just…sort of how things are here. But of course things are that way for a reason, so…I can say now that I feel perfectly safe and comfortable here in the village, providing I take the precautions that everyone expects me to take, like not walking anywhere alone at night…

My point in writing about this was actually to illustrate how much things have changed, how far I feel I have come both in being here and being a part of this family.

When I first arrived, I locked the door to my room each night so I’d feel safe. Now, I keep my door unlocked, and frequently open, to feel more safe. That, too, is sort of a metaphor, I think.

And coming home tonight, all this seemed a thousand times more important than talking about my first kastom wedding, complete with being a stone’s throw from not one but three dead pigs hanging by a rope.

Fortunately, my Mama had surreptitiously prepared some green lentils with mixed vegetables and brought them with us in a Tupperware to the feast.

My one-year-old cousin just woke up and is crying in the next room. All the adults are either at the wedding or in church. Um… I’ll go check on him now…

Please send (real) pictures!

I forgot to post that before.

I need pictures.
Ni-Vans love looking at pictures. And due to the digital age, I have embarassingly few to pass around.

So...send me pictures, please! Of you. Of us. Of "Amerika". Of snow. (Like the 5x7 kind.)

Just remember...snail mail is sexy...

More Pics

First Weeks in Emua

These pics are all jumbled. Some from Vila, some from Emua. The young couple by the side of the pick-up is my host parents. The random maternity ward is one of the country's best, cleanest, and most well-run clinics in the country. Just so you have a sense of what I am actually going to be dealing with. I am going to be working with an Aid Post which is two levels 'down' from a clinic - in terms of the structure of health care here, blah blah, blah. Boringness.

Write me!

From Emua to Bongabonga

Week 1 in Vila

The first album is of the first week in Vila. I wanted to try to get our most luxurious moments so that we could have the contrast later...it already is funny to me now to look at these pictures. We are all so pale and innocent...and clean. Ah, to be that young again...

So.

Bongabonga, Tongoa.

I’m not making this up. It really is the name of a place. And not just any place. It’s where I am going to live for the next two years.

There’s not a lot I can tell you about Tongoa at this point, as there is not too much I know. In fact, you should all just Google it and then send me e-mails (via Peace Corps) telling me what you find.

I am going to be in Vila for the first time in 2.5 weeks tomorrow, so I had someone bring up my laptop so I could pre-write a blog here and then hopefully have enough time to post it in town.

So, basically, I am sitting on a pandanus mat on top of the coral “floor” of my outdoor kitchen with my back up against the tin wall of my house…with my laptop. This is one of those moments where I can actually see my body and this incongruous image from the outside.

What can I tell you about life in Emua? It’s like nowhere and everywhere I’ve lived, with people that are like no one and everyone I’ve ever met.

I have been told some other PCV parents have been following this blog, so let me just add: Your children are all fine. And thriving. Today as part of our language training we each did five-minute presentations in Bislama on the topic of our choice for the village. I assure you your son/daughter performed admirably. Plus, they are eating well. And going to bed early…haha. Don’t worry. We all take care of each other here!

As predicted, the first few weeks have been quite the rollercoaster for a number of reasons, but I dare suggest that things are starting to stabilize. Just in time to turn everything upside down again when we all go out to see our sites in less than two weeks.

It’s pretty exciting, though, to know there’s a house being built (I heard through the coconut that it’s one of the larger volunteer houses) out of wood somewhere by people who have never met me. No one’s ever built me a house before.

As I write, someone is strumming a guitar and I hear the lyrics to one of my favourite local language Jesus songs. I’m not sure whether it’s coming from my yard or somewhere. Buying a guitar and bringing it up here was pretty much the smartest thing I’ve ever done for a hundred reasons. It has really helped me to connect to people here and learn local music. Apparently, I’m Presbyterian now. I even go to church. Any church that has guitars in it is okay by me. One love.

My (host) mom’s side of the family is Pentecostal and in truth I am actually dying to check out their church. They have this youth service at THREE A.M. and I hear the guitars and the singing from my bed.

That whole side of things, being in a really spiritual and musical environment, is definitely one of the highlights.

In truth, the ups have been really up and the downs have been really down. As I’m on an upswing at this precise moment, I won’t dwell on the other stuff. I can’t believe it’s only been a few weeks, and in truth I’ve completely lost track of how long it actually has been.

Oh - idea - CALL FOR VOLUNTEER SCRIBES!

So here’s what I’ve been thinking. I’m not online regularly now and I have no idea if I’ll be able to use the internet at ALL on Tongoa. I’ve written piles of snail mail, and I just got the idea that if I snail mail a blog entry with the password to this site, then one of you lovely kind people could type it up and post it for me. So if you’re down with that, let me know. Also, if I don’t have your address and you think I might want it you should send it to me via the Peace Corps e-mail volunteer@vu.peacecorps.gov.

Thanks to all those who have sent letters & e-mails so far. It really means a lot. I am writing back but it takes a few weeks from Vanuatu so don’t wait for my replies. Keep sending things!

And if any other PCV friends/family are reading this, PLEASE send mail to your volunteers and make sure all their friends do too! You have to envision that we are all like rounded up a couple times a week when mail is distributed…so, like, names are just called out one by one and if you don’t get mail, it really sucks, you know?

Sometimes it really does get lonely out here.

And the “real” adventure hasn’t even begun…