The Voice of America is a radio program that will be unfamiliar to those Americans who have never lived overseas. Apparently, it is unavailable in the US. Its purpose is not the same as National Public Radio or Public Radio International. The Voice of America (VOA) exists to disseminate information about America abroad, kind of like a public relations tool. It broadcasts world news with a distinctively American slant, as well as introducing the latest American hit songs to an international audience. VOA is broadcast primarily on short-wave frequencies, so they need fewer broadcasting stations to obtain world coverage. VOA's rebroadcasting station on S�o Tom� is just outside the capital, and at night, you can see a swarm of red blinking lights on the horizon. This rebroadcasting station covers most of central and parts of southern Africa. It also serves as a de facto US consulate in S�o Tom� and Pr�ncipe, as the American embassy in Gabon is also supposed to cover STP. Once inside the heavily guarded gates (we entered to register our presence in STP with the embassy representative on staff – a good idea whenever you move overseas), you're in a little America, complete with cowboy hat-wearing staff members, pictures of George W. Bush smiling benevolently down upon you, and basketball courts abutting staff housing just outside the office window.
Of course, the grounds of the VOA station are spotless, and the road leading up to it is in excellent repair – also a symbol of America abroad. But to be honest, the roads here in STP aren't nearly as far below US standards as I've seen elsewhere. Sure, there are sections that are abominable! But there are always road crews working to fix them (something I have not seen in other parts of Africa; in Guinea, for example, the roads were always falling apart and hardly anyone was doing anything about it). Not too long ago, a pothole appeared on the main waterfront road from the airport to downtown S�o Tom�. Just this past week, road crews were there with sophisticated equipment, detour signs, and orange cones, directing traffic around the work zone! Just the fact that somebody notices and addresses such problems with relative promptness is and astounding departure from my expectations. They even have GIME's here (Grupo de Interesse de Manuten��o das Estradas), which are private interest groups that take charge of certain sections of public roads in rural areas, cleaning them, fixing them, mowing the shoulder, etc. (kind of like the Adopt-a-Highway program in the US). One can see ambulances transporting the ill and injured speeding along these roads, and the Saotomean police have police cars! In some other parts of Africa I've been to, no such services exist. If you are injured in an accident, you either die of your injuries on the spot while crowds of onlookers stare or someone will take pity on you and drive you to the hospital themselves. If your house has been robbed, you must drive down to the station yourself to pick up the police and give them a ride to the scene.
Just a week ago, we passed a bloodied old man with head wounds being supported by several young men as they tried to guide him out of the road where he'd just had a motorcycle accident. Because we were one of the first on the scene and we have an open-bed pickup truck, we stopped and offered transportation to the hospital which was less than half a kilometer away. When we arrived, the man was taken straight into the emergency room, laid on a bed, and the doctor started washing up while he asked the accompanying young many some questions about what happened. That's even better service than you'd get in the US! I've seen too many friends with really serious conditions (shattered shoulder bone, rupturing ectopic pregnancy, etc.) wait for many, many hours in the emergency room while I know full well that nothing but red tape is slowing their admittance to treatment (I used to volunteer in an emergency room; it's nothing like the show "ER"). One has to wonder which country is more developed. Oh, incidentally, it appears that health care here is free – a socialized system where all you pay for are the medicines you use. Where do we sign up for that in the US?!
If you were to see a still shot of S�o Tom� harbor, you'd think it was a really busy port! There are boats all over the bay, at least a half dozen of them small to medium-sized ships. But if you were to see the same shot in video, you'd soon realize that most of those ships aren't moving. In fact, they're rusting hulks. Various storms over the years have blown poorly anchored ships into the bay where they ran aground in the shallow water. Too poor to afford salvaging them, the crews simply abandoned the ships where they were and moved on with their lives. Some people now row out to them on little boats and try to pry loose pieces of scrap that they can sell for cash. Others visit them so that they can stand on precarious perches and fish off the edge. I imagine the aquatic life under them must be teeming, but the water of the bay is too silty to make a sightseeing dive worthwhile.
I was recently invited (and accepted) to visit an ADRA project up in the mountains just above S�o Tom� city. It's good to get out and see what other projects are doing, or else you might get stuck in your own little project world and never learn from others. The project is in Monte Cafe/Novo Destino. This community has two names because it is part of a large coffee plantation up in the cooler heights of the interior (Monte Cafe). The plantation is divided into seven districts, of which Novo Destino is one. The district consists of a community and surrounding orchards (is that what you'd call them?) of coffee trees. To get there, you have to drive through cool, thick forest on an abominable, rutted dirt track with dropoffs close to the edge of the road. This project is funded by Chevron, one of several oil companies showing an interest in STP because of offshore oil reserves. It is a comprehensive project, advancing in stages that address different aspects of development at a time (running water, latrines, housing, school, etc.).
Not too far from Monte Cafe/Novo Destino is the Cascata S�o Nicolau, a beautiful waterfall plunging from thickly forested cliffs to a small pool below. On the slopes around the waterfall grow strawberry-looking things which actually have no taste at all! After driving up from the hotter climate below, one is tempted to jump into the pool below the waterfall for a swim. But Kristi acquired a leech simply by dipping her finger in the fast-moving water (it didn't attach, but sure was looking for a place to do so), so the prospect of a swim seems a whole lot less appealing. Still, it's a nice place to have a picnic lunch and relax to the sound of falling water.
Not far away from Cascata S�o Nicolau is Boa Vista, a classy hotel with an incredible panorama view down the mountainside to the city and bay below. The grounds of the hotel are lovely, with Bird of Paradise, bamboo, and many other unidentifiable ornamental plants landscaped tastefully around the building. If only the hotel were operational! It was opened in the mid-1990's, but for some reason shut down within 10 years. So it sits there locked up, commanding one of the best views in the country, its sweeping staircase empty, its patio unpopulated, and its floor-to-ceiling glass-walled restaurant vacant. About a kilometer up the road is the most beautiful botanical garden in the country, I am told, but we haven't had a chance to visit it yet. From that botanical garden starts a trail that leads up to the summit of Pico de S�o Tom�, the highest point in the country.
A few weekends ago, we visited Lagoa Azul ("blue lagoon"), a beach on the drier western side of the island. Here, there are much more grasslands and baobab trees and fewer coconut palms, but the beaches are just as incredible as elsewhere in terms of water clarity and the quality of the sand. Well, actually Lago Azul has little sand left (it has been eroded away), so we took pictures of the lovely scene and then drove up the road to Praia das Conchas ("conch beach") for the rest of the day. Snorkeling around the lava boulders reveals striped zebra-looking fish, parrotfish, and super-long needle-like fish. I even saw a shape at the bottom hovering above the sand that looked about as big as a man's shirt, swaying with the surges, folding over itself and changing form. I thought it might be an octopus, as I see octopuses being sold along the roadside every time I drive to Cau�. Kristi dived down for a closer look, and it WAS a man's shirt! We should have left it alone so we could feel more exotic in our ignorance!
Between our 7th anniversary (June 18) and my birthday (June 27), I went to Pr�ncipe again for work. I decided to bring Kristi and Zachary along, too, as a sort of celebratory trip for these two milestones. It was nice to visit the villages and see the progress since my last visit. One village we drove to, Praia das Burras, was inaccessible due to periodic ditches across the road that are being dug to divert rainfall runoff. Well, the road is inaccessible to MOST people, but sturdy wooden planks are made available for those intrepid (or stupid) enough to line them up with one's tires and drive across. I guess I'm intrepid (or stupid) enough! Everybody else hopped out of the car, for the sake of guiding me or for the sake of saving their necks I'll never know.
During this trip, the President of the Autonomous Region of Pr�ncipe was in town, so I met with him just to introduce myself and let him know about the progress of the project. He is a very cordial, educated man who speaks perfect French and Spanish, in addition to Portuguese. The three areas he identified as priorities for development in Pr�ncipe were potable water for communities outside the capital, agricultural development, and the establishment of an English school. Oil is on the horizon for Pr�ncipe, as is tourism, and English is the language of both. A huge impact could be made by anyone willing to establish an English language school. Anybody interested?
One thing I love about being in a place like this are the cultural festivals. Having European (and Catholic) influence means that there are even more festivals than just the indigenous ones. One evening during our stay in Pr�ncipe, a huge crowd of people marched through the streets of Santo Antonio, dancing in formation, some of them wearing costumes, blowing referee whistles, blasting on horns, and singing and clapping their hearts out. It looked like so much fun! What a shame it would be if they lived in a bigger city in a cold climate where people don't mingle in the streets!
Of course, during our stay in Pr�ncipe, I also took Kristi and Zachary to Praia Banana, the most beautiful beach in the world. Again, I saw monkeys jumping through the treetops, but Kristi missed it. We enjoyed an incredible day of snorkeling, playing in the sand, swimming, laying in the shade, picnicking, and exploring the palm forest abutting the beach and the huge lava boulders nearby. A quartet of rotund Portuguese tourists shared the beach with us, having arrived from Bom Bom Island Resort by pirogue that morning. The resort is a 20-minute boat ride away, and costs a mere 195 Euros per person per night! Yikes! That's like $265! But it does include three meals a day. Yet no excursions (those are extra). If you just stay at the resort itself, there isn't much to do but swim in the pool or the beach. Anyway, we had spoken to the South African manager by phone the day before to arrange an anniversary dinner at the restaurant (much more affordable than staying there!), and he encouraged us to hop on the pirogue returning from Praia Banana with the tourists in the afternoon – no charge. When we arrived on the grounds, we were issued a bungalow all our own to shower in and keep our stuff until after dinner – also at no charge, since we didn't stay the night and it's the off season anyway (only six couples were staying there; Christmas/New Year is the heaviest time). What a visual pleasure to stroll around the incredibly landscaped grounds, gorgeous beaches, and roundavel bungalows. The dinner was served in a maritime-themed candle-lit restaurant which was empty but for us. Soft music by KT Tunstall played in the background, and the resort's Indian chef prepared an exquisite vegetarian Indian dinner for us. The resort managers stopped by to chat, Kristi reminisced about southern Africa with them, and they urged us to come back whenever we're on Pr�ncipe again.
At the end of our stay, we packed our bags the night before leaving and suddenly noticed that our return tickets were gone! We scoured our luggage and the hotel room but to no avail. I called up our ADRA staff on Pr�ncipe and the hotel manager for advice, and we finally concluded that it would be best to go to the airport early in the morning and speak with the local manager of STP Airways, a personal friend of just about everyone involved (everyone knows everyone else on small islands like these). We were there bright and early the next day, and I explained our situation to the man in charge. He called the STP Airways office in S�o Tom� to confirm that we were on the list of paid passengers. After getting off the phone, he said, "You're on the list, so I can reissue you a ticket. But it will cost you the price of a one-way ticket for each person." "No, no," I protested. "You must be mistaken. The fact that we're on the passenger list proves that we already paid. All you have to do is reissue the ticket." "You can't travel without a ticket," he countered, "and I can't issue a ticket without payment. Your names being on the list allows me to reissue the tickets, but you still have to pay." "A ticket is just a piece of paper," I argued. "No piece of paper is worth $100! Why can't you just reissue it?!" I exclaimed. Back and forth we went, I getting more and more incredulous as this absurd logic was presented to me. The hotel manager tried to intervene. Our ADRA staff tried to intervene. All to no avail. By this time, the plane had landed and boarding time was fast approaching. One of the rotund Portuguese tourists who had been with us at Praia Banana overheard what was going on, and when his attempts at intervention didn't succeed, he told the South African pilots about our situation. They came storming into the manager's office shouting, "You can't treat customers this way. This is not good business! His name is on the list. Reissue the tickets!" The manager insisted he could not because the office in S�o Tom� wouldn't let him. Both pilots immediately commandeered his desk phone and cell phone and simultaneously called S�o Tom� to complain. Meanwhile, the manager of Bom Bom Island Resort walked in and berated the hapless manager. The South Africans own the plane itself, but the airline belongs to STP Airways. The airline is renting the plane from the South Africans, so STP Airways usually deals with all the passenger-related stuff while the South Africans simply fly the plane and collect rent checks. This level of intervention by people we hardly knew must either be chalked up to the sense of camaraderie foreigners feel when thrown into a foreign country together (expats look out for each other) or Kristi's reminiscing about southern Africa with their colleagues. Whatever the reason, it worked! We paid $20 total for all three of us and were reissued tickets and boarding passes! I thanked everyone profusely for their help and the manager of Bom Bom said to stop by for a drink at the resort any time I want. After boarding the plane and taking our seats (the exact same ones we had coming over), Kristi opened the seat pockets in front of us on a whim. And there were our tickets! We didn't know what else to do but laugh at the absurdity of our situation!
Our home is within shouting distance of the national hospital and a military camp. We can sometimes hear the chanting of men in drill formation, but the worst auditory assault has to be that blasted bugle! At all times of the day, we can hear some poor soul practicing taps, reveille, and all other manner of military toots that make us want to shove earbuds in our ears and crank up some music – any music other than that abominable bugler! He sounds like a pimple-faced high school freshman who just isn't getting any better at his horn no matter how much he practices (kind of like myself at that age).
If we thought that was bad, though, how about a whole band of them?! What a nice touch to attend our embassy's 4th of July party during a moonlit night in the open air on the rooftop of the old Portuguese fort looking out over the black sea and a host of stars in the heavens... and a squeaky band of battered brass instruments slaughtering our favorite American tunes! The carnage was appalling, and there were shattered pieces of Yankee Doodle, America the Beautiful, and The Star-Spangled Banner strewn all over the place. The cleanup job afterward must have been awful! Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves meeting a Swiss anthropologist who works for the UN Development Programme (Global Fund), her Kenyan husband who is familiar with Maxwell Adventist Academy in Nairobi where Kristi attended high school, the Consul of Cape Verde who turns out to be our next-door neighbor (with his American wife from New York City), the jolly, rotund South African pilot of Dutch descent ("I can trace my family's arrival in Cape Town to August 17, 1686") who bailed us out in Pr�ncipe (he's also a nearby neighbor, who ribbed us endlessly when we told him we'd be happy to attend his bree [barbecue] if it was vegetarian), a crew of American students from the University of Illinois who are here for two weeks to plan for the expansion of the airport (the airport manager is an alumnus of Illinois), and the jovial American ambassador who read through his short speech with gusto in Portuguese, never minding if he was pronouncing things right or not (certainly not an introvert, I'd say!).
And that's about all for this tome. Be sure to visit the ADRA blog at http://adrast.blogspot.com/ and read my entry about "AWARE Project Receives Donation". And I'm working on posting some more pictures to my website AND videos! I'll let you know as soon as those are released.
Until next time,
Adam