Trip to the U. S. and A.

My trip to Washington DC in November was wonderful/horrible. I spent two weeks learning valuable information for my work at the ADRA Management Orientation Workshop, visiting friends and family � and miserably missing my wife and son back in STP. Thank God for Skype and Google Talk. They were such lifesavers. To help Zachary conceptualize that I really was coming back (several friends have recently left STP permanently, so I didn�t want him to think I had done the same), I drew a picture for him for each day I was gone. Each morning, Kristi would help him take one down from where I had taped all 14 pictures on the wall, and then they would watch video clips I had made before leaving of me playing with him, reading to him, and playing the guitar. In any case, it made me feel better and more responsible. I�m not sure how much he can understand time at his age.

Theft

The main remarkable event of the trip took place on the last leg of the return flight. I was packed to the gills with Christmas presents and American foodstuffs, but made sure to carry my work laptop and other valuables (including a new laptop for a friend in STP, digital camera, iPod, $700 prescription eyeglasses, and various other electronics) in my carry-on luggage. Prior to the last leg of my journey on TAP Air Portugal (from Lisbon to S�o Tom�), I had flown one domestic leg on United Airlines and two international legs on Lufthansa Airlines, both partners with TAP in the Star Alliance network. My luggage had been checked through to the final destination, and I used the same carry-on bag on all three previous flights of the return trip. Yet when I arrived at the bottom of the stairs at the boarding gate in Lisbon to get on the bus that would take us to the airplane, I was told that there was not enough room for my carry-on piece, and that I would have to leave it there to be stowed in the cargo hold during the flight. I protested that my carry-on piece could not possibly be too large, as it had been accepted on three previous flights with two different companies that were partners with TAP. �Does TAP have different size standards than other international airlines?� I asked the representative at the bottom of the stairs. �The flight is very full,� she insisted, �so there will be limited space for carry-on baggage.� I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should push it further, but then saw that the bus would be leaving soon for the airplane and, not wanting to miss my flight, left my bag with the representative, received my claim tag with the assurance that �your bag will be one of the last ones onto the plane and therefore one of the first ones off at your destination�, and jumped on board the shuttle bus with the admonition to collect my bag at the bottom of the stairs from the plane in S�o Tom�. I noticed that quite a few other carry-on pieces had also been tagged and left with the representative, so I did not find it entirely unusual that I had been asked to leave my carry-on luggage behind, too.

When we arrived in S�o Tom�, I descended from the plane and asked for my carry-on baggage from a TAP representative at the bottom of the stairs. He told me that it would come through on the conveyor belt inside the airport at the baggage claim area, so I joined the line of other people waiting to clear through customs and passport control. When I collected my baggage, the carry-on piece was actually the last one to come through, though it should have been one of the first. It also felt a little lighter than usual when I lifted it, but I figured that I must simply have been mistaken about its original weight. Airport security inspected nearly all of my checked baggage for contraband, but simply cleared my carry-on bag without opening it and waved me through (this is quite a frequent occurrence when there is a large volume of passengers and luggage to inspect).

When I got home and opened my carry-on suitcase, it was then that I discovered that all of the valuables listed above were missing. I don�t know who the thieves were. If it happened in S�o Tom�, then it was definitely an inside job, as TAP asserted over and over that they are in complete control of baggage handling at this airport. If it happened in Lisbon, then it could have been TAP employees or any other airport personnel that have access to the tarmac. In any case, whether or not a TAP employee instigated the robbery in Lisbon, TAP employees should have been at least guarding the luggage at all times; in that sense, TAP is at least partly responsible for my losses, yet they claim that they are entirely not responsible for anything that happens to luggage while in their possession. I now even have questions about whether or not the lady at the bottom of the stairs before entering the bus really worked for TAP herself or not. The sense of urgency and insistence with which she caught passengers off guard who were trying to get on the bus before it departed is certainly suspicious. In any case, ADRA has good insurance plans which should cover all of my losses. It�s just that it will take a long time to process, and in the meantime, we�re having to jury-rig our way around the office and home without our electronics.

Cultural Comparisons

Returning to STP is far different from arriving the first time. When one first sets foot on these islands, one's senses are overwhelmed by the newness of it all that the details are far in the background. Over time, the details emerge, but by then one has become somewhat used to them, so they do not attract as much attention as they might merit. When I returned to STP, however, I was already familiar with most of the commonplace sights and sounds, so the details immediately jumped out at me.

Two things that severely hit home to me (I think "home" got hit so hard it got a bruise) were the banking and internet systems. They could not have been more starkly in contrast with that of the United States had they been literally juxtaposed side-by-side. The day after returning, I spent the better part of an hour standing in line at the bank to see a teller, with only 3 people in front of me. I've spent longer before, but that was with 2 or 3 times as many people in front of me. With only 3, there can't possibly be a good explanation as to why it took more than 30 minutes! The teller, to his credit, was furiously typing and printing and scribbling notes the whole time he spent with the first person in line (25 minutes); perhaps he, too, is a victim of the system, and not an inherently slow worker. Maybe regulations are so laboriously binding that he simply cannot fulfill all his duties any faster than he was. Then again, he may have been playing Tetris, for all I know. All other tellers were just as furiously busy, with the press of hot, sweaty humanity building pressure behind me and compressing me toward the counter. The point is, the system is extremely cumbersome in comparison with that of the United States. I couldn't help but think back to my visit to our little hometown bank this very same week before leaving Michigan. In less than 5 minutes, I made several transactions with far larger amounts of money than was handled in my STP transaction. And when I initially walked into the bank in Michigan, there were two tellers waiting to serve and not even one client standing in line! One would be very hard pressed to argue that the more stringent process in STP makes for better banking than at my good ol' hometown bank. Yet regulations seem to be more important than the customer here � something that is very hard for a customer-oriented Westerner to accept (the customer is always #1, right? not necessarily, in many parts of the world).

And then � get this � the bank recently ran out of 50,000 Dobra bills! For perspective, imagine that the largest unit of currency available in the United States was the 4 dollar bill (I know it doesn�t exist, but that�s roughly equivalent to 50,000 Dobras). Instead of being able to easily walk out of the bank with $100 in cool cash represented by one thin bill of paper nestled into your wallet, you�d have to take a wad of 25 bills with you to the grocery store, to the gas station, to the electric company to pay your bill in person in cash... Now imagine that the second largest bank in the country � in the capital city of the country � ran out of 4 dollar bills one day. They simply didn�t have enough in circulation to avoid this unfortunate turn of events. The next biggest available bills were 20,000 Dobras (roughly a dollar-and-a-half). We had to withdraw hundreds of dollars worth of cash in $1.50 increments!

The internet brought the contrast between the United States and STP home to me with additional clarity. After spending two weeks in the United States with excessively fast connections, our office DSL (Dial-up by Saotomean Logic) connection made accomplishing even the simplest task groaningly painful. Individual pages took longer to load than I experienced using a regular telephone line in the States. Making a simple payment online easily took at least half an hour again � all because of slow-loading webpages � whereas it could have been done in 5 to 10 minutes in the US. And then, because there is no competition in country for many services (officially STP is open for business competition, but in reality, any but those favored by the government for their enormous kickbacks are choked to death by taxes and regulations), when the only internet provider in the country went down for most of the week before Christmas, nobody but the satellite-connected had any internet services at all. Predictably, CST (the telephone and internet company) blamed somebody else � EMAE, the electric company for the nation � for a power surge taking out their internet servers. EMAE, for its part, whined that it couldn�t afford stabilizing mechanisms for their power supply, though you can be sure that company upper muckity-mucks are wallowing in dough. An independent Taiwanese investigation revealed the astonishing fact that EMAE generators are held together by chicken wire and chewing gum (almost). They�ve jury-rigged the things up the wazoo instead of ordering and installing proper replacement parts when things break. Maybe (and I�m feeling charitable here) an actual step existed where somebody looked up the part and placed an order while someone else jury-rigged the thing �temporarily�, but when the jury-rigging proved so successful, the order was canceled in order to save more money for the company bosses. But it�s just as likely that the cycle goes like this: breakdown --> jury rig --> breakdown --> jury rig --> breakdown --> jury rig ad infinitum.

I'm not wanting to get on a xenophobic 3rd-world bashing tangent here. I am well aware that STP has more to offer than even the United States, in some respects. Every country has its strengths and weaknesses. Yet it is precisely those differences that lend so much tension to cross-cultural work. I come from a highly-productive culture that values efficiency over process and expects the same of everyone else. Little do we realize in the United States how much our personal efficiency depends upon the efficiency of others. It's a whole system. Because I know that banking will take only 5 to 10 minutes of my time in the US, I can squeeze it in between a trip to the dry cleaners to pick up some clothes (another 5 minutes) and to Subway to pick up some sandwiches for lunch (10 minutes) and be home within half an hour of leaving. Imagine if I couldn't depend on the dry cleaner to have my clothes done when I asked them to be. And if the dry cleaner didn't bother to call and let me know they'd be another day. And if no one came promptly to the counter when I arrived to tell me to come back later, so that I stood there for 10 minutes trying to get somebody's attention (who was busy schmoozing with his girlfriend behind a partially-closed door). Imagine if when I got to the bank, there was a line of 4-5 people (or even 10, as it is sometimes here) with only one teller who was required (in the case of nearly every customer) to fill out 3 forms by hand, print 3 copies of every document, enter 5 minutes of furiously-typed text (God only knows what he's writing � a novel, maybe?), saunter back and confer with his boss on at least half of the transactions (stopping to chat about his friend's goats by the water cooler on the way back), and complete some outstanding grunt work in between serving each client? Imagine if I had to wake a haggard-looking sleepyhead from a mid-afternoon nap when I arrived at Subway and convince her to come make me a sandwich, though she obviously couldn't care less about making any money on that given day (because she had already earned enough to minimally break even or because she was paid the same by her boss regardless of sales), and then she had to patch together a sandwich from various parts (since the ingredients had not been all laid out in a sequential fashion to minimize repetitious motions and half-hearted searching for that blasted slab of cheese). Grand total: dry cleaner (10 minutes) + bank (45 minutes) + Subway (20 minutes) = 75 minutes (1 hr 15 mins). That's more than twice the amount of time it takes to do the same things in the US.

And so, those not privileged enough to have spent significant amounts of time in a 3rd-world banking line have no idea how much their personal productivity is precisely possible because of other people's productivity, and that their personal productivity would be brutally slaughtered in the vicious maw of inefficient bureaucracy and minimal workplace motivation on the part of their contemporaries (as is found in many parts of the world). What does a guy do, who is used to churning out 4 to 5 major accomplishments per day, and who is then plunked into a stew so thick that he often cannot mark even one mediocre accomplishment per day after expending twice the energy he used to in the States, frantically bashing his head against the wall of inefficiency that threatens to box him into his final resting place, God rest his soul? It takes gobs of money or a true sense of calling � that this is one�s destiny � to not simply ignore the frustrating circumstances of others and retreat to the safe comfort of home and pretend that places like this don't exist, but to offer a helping hand so that others can rise up out of their own predicaments as a result of someone who cared enough to come. You get one guess as to which is our motivator, and here�s a hint: it ain�t gobs of money.

Cultural Observations

While I�m on a comparison kick, something else that has stood out to me recently is how important appearances are here. I�m not meaning what you�re wearing to the Grammy�s, per se. I mean that for many people here, it appears that form is more important than function. Take our window screens, for example. Each of the windows of our house has glass on the inside, iron bars in the middle, and mosquito screens on the outer layer. We complained to our landlord recently that our screen frames were warped, and that mosquitoes could get in around the edges. We couldn�t open our windows for fresh air without inviting squadrons of mosquitoes in. He promptly ordered them replaced and contracted some workmen who did a lovely job. The new screens look really sharp and neat � and have gaps TWICE as big as the old ones around the edges of the frames. Umm, hello! We didn�t ask for replacements because the old ones were ugly; we asked for replacements because the old ones were non-functional! That a workman can do such a horrible job with wood that he knows will warp because it�s too fresh and not feel ashamed of his job is beyond me. What about reputation? Pride in the quality of one�s work? Building a loyal and satisfied customer base? If it were an isolated incident, I�d chalk it up to coincidence. But I�ve seen enough jobs done shoddily here if the customer isn�t constantly looking over the workman�s shoulder that I think it�s more common than not. I�m not saying that there aren�t any reliable workmen here; it�s just that there is also a robust corps of non-reliable ones, too. Many workmen seem far more concerned about hounding you for their paycheck than satisfying the customer. It has happened (and I kid you not) that we once had to send back some hand-painted signs THREE TIMES to the same painter because they weren�t done right. Either the material used was not what we had asked for, or the sign had spattered paint all over it where it wasn�t supposed to be, or the wording was done differently than what we had meticulously constructed. It wasn�t his job to innovate or deviate from the exact instructions we had given him. The contract was explicit � he�d get paid for doing the job we asked him to. Yet between each deficient version of product he produced and presented to us, his only concern was, �Where is my money? I want to get paid now!� Not, �I�m so sorry there was a misunderstanding over your expectations. Is what I�ve produced this time to your satisfaction?� In the end, we had to accept the third version (though it was still deficient) just because time had run out and we needed to post the sign. But he definitely won�t ever get our business again, which is a travesty, because it would have been so simple for him to satisfy the customer. There are many more examples I could give of cases where products are beautiful yet non-functional, but we don�t need to dwell on that point.

Most Saotomeans don�t have a car. But that�s not all. Not only do they rely on taxi services to get around, but they also regularly try to beg rides off of random passing cars. It�s kind of like an informal hitchhiking system. Many car owners must be responding, or else the hitchhiking wouldn�t continue unabated. That�s not necessarily unusual in itself. In many African countries I�ve been to, hitchhiking is a fairly common way to get around. But what makes it different here is that picking up random people is so expected, that just about anybody you pass without giving them a ride gets seriously upset with you. It�s almost as if you don�t have a choice. If someone asks, you MUST pick them up or they are totally justified in yelling at you as you whiz past. The strange thing is that I�ve seen many other cars pass hitchhikers by, too, and each one gets the same treatment. The enthusiasm with which they chew out those who don�t stop doesn�t diminish whatsoever no matter how many cars go by. It�s a very curious thing to me that I can�t quite explain. In our particular case, ADRA vehicles are forbidden to transport anyone not associated with the organization (our insurance policy prohibits it), so we couldn�t give rides even if we wanted to. But people sometimes act like it�s a personal offense that we could be so rude as to pass them by. It�s almost like they have a sense of entitlement to free transport, and we just aren�t getting with the program.

Similarly, total strangers have no qualms just showing up at our doorstep and outright asking for money. This is unusual from what I�ve seen in Africa before (begging is not unusual; doing it at our doorstep is). It doesn�t happen often here, but at least a handful of times in the 7 � months we�ve been here, people have just knocked on our door and asked for favors. They aren�t poorly dressed or famished looking, and in fact are almost invariably young men in the prime of their life. What could they be possibly needing help for? Most likely hooch, of course. We don�t want to turn away people we ought to know or help, of course, but how to evaluate such things? When our house girl is on duty cleaning for us, she is able to advise us on who is legit and who is not. In fact, getting a local opinion has become the staple of our response mechanism to such requests. For example, just days before Christmas, a young man showed up at our door speaking quickly and claiming that he is a church member whose infant daughter urgently needs a blood transfusion at the hospital. He was just tested (and then produced the document for me to verify) and his blood was not the right type. He was driving to Guadalupe (a town about a � hour away) to get his brother and bring him to the hospital to get tested to see if he can be a blood donor, but his car had just run out of gas. Could I spare some money so that he could fill his gas tank?

What to do? If he really was a church member and his infant daughter really was in critical condition and perished because we didn�t help, what would that do for ADRA�s reputation as a humanitarian agency? But how to verify if his situation really was legitimate or not? If not, our assistance might not only support a drug habit, but worse, it might establish our reputation as a house for other druggies to petition for money. The floodgates might open. Our house girl wasn�t at home. All the church officers were in their year-end meetings and didn�t respond to phone calls to verify this guy�s identity. Then Kristi got a brilliant idea. Tell him to go to the church headquarters (a hop and a skip away) where a committee full of church fathers was meeting at that very moment. They could verify his situation and help him. If his situation was legitimate, then he�d be in good hands. If not, then he�d still be in good hands, because I can�t think of anybody better to deal with such situations than local pastors. I told him that we don�t help people we don�t know or can�t verify, but that he could follow Kristi�s suggestion. At this, the man angrily stormed off, muttering unkind things under his breath.

Later in the day when I could get ahold of the pastor by phone, he didn�t recognize the name of the guy as a church member. He said that in such situations, it�s best to be cautious, because people almost always use some kind of urgent story to get you to dispense with your money without thinking. He affirmed that we had made a wise choice, that in cross-cultural situations like this, it�s always best to rely on the judgment of a trusted local friend. And he confirmed that nobody had shown up at the church asking for help that day. I remembered when I was in Benin as a 19-year-old student missionary and a total stranger came breathlessly to our door with an urgent story about his wife in labor having complications and needing money to take her to the hospital. My colleague gave him money, but I was not comfortable doing so. We decided to follow him on bicycle to see if he would use it well, but he easily outran us on his motorbike. Six months later, he was caught in action by another expatriate family, who detained him as long as possible while another friend brought the police to the scene. It was discovered that he had swindled several other expatriates over that time period, and the police beat him brutally and extracted enough cash to repay everyone who had been cheated before letting him go.

Dogs

A description of STP that did not cover the canine population would be incomplete. Dogs have their own culture here, too, that is more reminiscent of �Lord of the Flies� than organized civil society. Each dog has an owner (or so we are told), but the relationship is loose to the point that the only contact there seems to be between dog and owner is when the dog is kept in a compound by night for the sake of scaring off thieves, and then whenever the dog is wailed upon by its owner (or just about anybody else nearby) by day. During all waking hours, dogs are completely on their own, roaming the streets either individually or in packs, the latter reminiscent of gangs of adolescent dopeheads joyriding in their dads� �57 Chevy convertibles, cruising for chicks. Saotomeans are generally afraid of dogs, but appreciate their thief-scaring qualities enough to keep them around anyway. But that�s about all the appreciation dogs get. Otherwise, they are despised, and are often the brunt of inhumane abuse. It is not unusual during the day to be serenaded at least once per hour by a screeching, yelping dog, suffering from some brutal kick or whack or stone hurled into its flank. It would be one thing if the yelp was quick, kind of like being caught by surprise, or the victim of some accidental stepping on the toes. But often, the kay-ay-aying goes on for 30 seconds or more, either indicating ongoing abuse (like, the dog is trapped or tied down and being beaten) or infliction of a wound so severe that it takes that long for the stinging to subside. I can�t imagine what a dog might do that was so horrible to deserve a beating that bad, except maybe biting the face off of a sleeping baby. But you can�t tell me that that occurs once an hour. So it seems that dogs are the scapegoat for a lot more angst than they are responsible for generating. It�s quite sad, really. People don�t seem to realize that a befriended dog is an even better guard against thieves, and you acquire a loyal friendship to boot. But instead, dogs turn to each other for comfort and friendship, and consequently lead lives that are much more wild than domestic, though they inhabit the same territory as people.

Ebola?

For living in equatorial Africa at the same latitude as Congo and Gabon and other famous disease hotspots, STP is relatively free of bizarre deadly diseases. I�ve highlighted elsewhere how malaria is virtually nonexistent, and you don�t hear of freak shows like Ebola and Dengue Fever prancing about. But there is the ubiquitous flu (�gripe�) that people seem to think is caused by rain (it�s caused by being exposed to rain, getting chilly, and not protecting yourself from the elements � not the rain itself). And recently, we�ve all broken out with bizarre sores in sensitive parts of our bodies, such as armpits and upper lips. Our Cuban doctor says it�s a Streptococcal infection � the same pathogen that causes strep throat � that makes skin lesions in hot, moist climates. It�s easily cleared up within one day by applying an acidic ointment, but just as soon as we close one up, another sore opens in a different part of the body. It�s like those kiddie games �Whack-a-Mole� and �Hungry, Hungry Hippo� where you bop down the head of one critter and another springs up in a different place. There�s no winning or losing � just whacking and bopping until the battery runs out, which in this case would be equivalent to the climate changing. Of course, we cannot control that, but we actually can... sort of. As Kristi expands to make room for the new baby growing inside her, her generators rev up, and she�s been hotter than I have for a change. So we�ve been using the air conditioning much more often now, and we not only have cooler air, but drier air circulating about our armpits and upper lips. So the sores are definitely in retreat.

It�s a Girl!

Speaking of Kristi�s inhabitant, we got an ultrasound done just before Christmas as a present to ourselves � to find out the sex of our new baby. Kristi had just passed her 20th week (halfway!), which is just about the earliest you can detect the sex by normal ultrasound. Well, the baby again proved itself to be much more active than we remembered Zachary being in utero, but it stopped long enough to give us four good long looks at its bottom, and we�re as certain as one can be that we�re going to have a little girl. So, barring a delivery room surprise, we�d like to introduce Julie _____ Ki�. We haven�t decided on a middle name yet, though Kristi is leaning toward Anne. I�m not too partial to that combination myself, however, and Kristi is a little concerned about our daughter�s initials being JAK. NOTE TO OVERZEALOUS FRIENDS AND FAMILY: This is NOT an invitation for your assistance in naming our child! In fact, let it be known that any names suggested to us without invitation will be patently rejected simply by virtue of the fact that they were suggested to us. There. I�m glad we got that straight! Any questions?

The Party

Imagine the world�s biggest clothes dryer. I mean, huge. Big enough to fit a dozen or so people inside. It takes up nearly the whole Laundromat. After you�ve loaded a dozen or so severely inebriated people inside, insert several large stones � at least one for each person. Now, close the door, latch it, and push �start�. You now know what a Saotomean party sounds like. *BOOM* *BOOM* �YADDA-YADDA-YADDA-YADDA� *BOOM* *BOOM* �YADDA-YADDA-YADDA-YADDA�. The most horrendous cacophony you�ve ever heard, and it goes on without ceasing until 3 or 4 in the morning. Now, imagine living in a country with absolutely no zoning regulations. None at all. There is no residential district distinct from a business district distinct from an entertainment district. It�s all smeared together every which way. Sure, houses tend to cluster together, and shops tend to cluster together, but there�s no absolute rule saying that your next door neighbor can�t set up a pig farm in the middle of the city if he wants to. And there�s absolutely nothing you can do to prevent your property value from plummeting with the porkers because there�s no law backing you up.

Gratefully, that was a hypothetical example. We have no pig farm to contend with near our house (though ADRA is watching with bated breath and well-wrung hands to see what will become of the two remaining vacant lots near our office property). But we DO have the occasional Saotomean party to contend with, and just about the only comforting thing about that is that its ill effects linger for only one night. Several months ago, the casino around the corner from our apartment compound blasted a party all over our whole neighborhood via the largest sound system in the country (and I�m not using hyperbole here � it really is the largest). And a week or two before Christmas, our landlord�s son inflicted a 31st birthday party on the good residents of this neighborhood from our own backyard! Bad enough that it had to be close, but this was horrendously unbearable! A house at the back of our property � which faces half of the apartments in this complex, including ours � belongs to the landlord, though he does not live there. He uses it as an investment property, occasionally renting it out to interested parties, or hosting visitors there. There, in this quiet out-of-the-way location, was the spot designated for his son�s enormous birthday bash. The only warning we got was an invitation to join in the afternoon before it started. Never mind that only a narrow driveway separates the dance hall (living room with disco ball) from Zachary�s bedroom. Never mind that the family upstairs just had a baby 2 months ago. Never mind that the family across the hall from us has a 7-year-old son. The party burst into action around sunset and didn�t let up until long after we fell into a bleary-eyed, pulsating sleep. We did everything we could to shield ourselves from its effects. We closed our windows (which normally provide us with cool night breezes). We cranked up our loudest air conditioners and fans. We brought Zachary to sleep with us in our bed on the other side of the house. I called the landlord at midnight to give him a piece of my mind (he wasn�t attending the party, and was quite jarred from his sleep by my call; awwww, poor guy). But that�s all we could do. There is no 24-hour police line to call. There is no sound ordinance or zoning law that the police could cite them for. And there�s no guarantee that if we moved out in protest, we�d find a better place to live with any less likelihood of the same thing happening in the new location. Twice in 7 � months is not really all that bad, but once in a lifetime is enough to make one�s blood boil. My mind was busily at work with all kinds of alternative solutions (such as cutting the electric cable to that house with a knife) when I finally drifted fitfully off into sleep, my stomach in a knot from the tension building up inside my body over the chest-vibrating thumping beats emanating from the house out back.

Saotomean Fashion

We wondered before coming here if there would be any distinct fashion from STP that we could recognize. Unfortunately, there isn�t a whole lot of traditional anything, as this is a melting pot of sorts. But one thread (pun intended) that I see weaving throughout fashion society is the English shirt. I don�t care what it says; if it�s written in English, it is wildly, universally popular. They don�t care what it says, either, and it shows! Some girls look like they might possibly realize that their shirt says �Mango Madness� or �Apply Liberally As Needed� written boldly across their busts, and are wearing it purposely anyway. But you have to wonder when you see a middle-aged otherwise-wholesome woman wearing the same thing. And oh, how the English emblazoned on so many shirts is tortured and twisted! If it�s not provocative, it almost definitely is incorrect. �Cuet Girl�, �Tomy Hillflger�, �Waorj Sport Hot Time�, and on and on. It makes me think of those Chinese tattoos and faux oriental shirts that are so popular with some in America. What are they saying? �Kick me�? �I think I�m cool, but I�m really a nerd�? Who knows.

Christmas

All things foreign are popular in other venues, as well. The church keyboard comes with several preset songs, demonstrating the versatility of the machine. Imagine my surprise when, during a meditative lull in the church service several weekends ago, �Oh, Christmas Tree� burst forth from the keyboard, followed closely on its heels by �Jingle Bells�. Neither Kristi nor I could think of a delicate way to disabuse anybody of the notion that all Christmas music is sacred music, so we just bit our lips and bowed our heads for fervent meditation whenever one of these jovial hymns wafted over the congregation.

Our Christmas itself was low-key, but nice. Of course, we wished we could�ve been with our parents in Michigan, but we had a good time nevertheless. We tried to make it as normal as possible. I had been able to bring back several boxes of Christmas gifts when I returned from my trip to the United States, so our tree was well laden with presents. Our �tree� consisted of a picture of a clipart evergreen tree; I drew several ornaments and baubles, and then I clicked while Zachary dragged the ornaments onto the digital tree on my computer screen. Then, I placed the laptop with the �tree� on it on a coffee table, and the gifts sprawled beneath the table. It lacked that wonderful evergreen scent, but hey, it�s the best we could do in equatorial Africa! We all enjoyed rolling, cutting, and frosting Christmas cookies, too, though the only kinds of food coloring available meant that all our cookies were either red, orange, or yellow. I guess that�s the tropical version of Christmas cookie decoration!

The nice thing about the season here in STP is that so many days are officially mandated vacation days by the government! Not only do we get Christmas and New Year�s Day off, but the eves of both days are also holidays. In addition, December 21 is the day of St. Thomas on the Catholic calendar, and guess what that means? �S�o Tom� means St. Thomas in Portuguese, and the island was so named because it was on this day in 14__ that it was discovered by Portuguese sailors. Of course, an absolute necessity to get that day off from work. Not only that, but January 4 is the commemorative day of Rei Amador, the legendary leader of the first colonial resistance movement, so that, too, must be observed by taking a day off from work. In total, we get six mandated vacation days in the span of two weeks! Hardly anything useful can get done during that period, but we�re enjoying it nonetheless.

Saotomeans begin every new year with a dip in the sea. It�s a tradition, symbolizing washing themselves clean to face another year. We are told that literally every single person in the entire country heads to the beach on New Year�s Day, so we are expressly avoiding the beach on that day! One of my colleagues was incredulous when he realized (through my incessant questions) that the practice was new to me. �Don�t people in America go for a dip in the sea on New Year�s Day?� he asked. Not exactly! Even in the places where you don�t have to break through the ice, you still wouldn�t want to be in the water at this time of year! In any case, I suggested to him that he might go for his ceremonial wash on December 31 to avoid the crowds, and just make extra special sure that he doesn�t sin again before midnight. He thought this was quite funny, but somehow I don�t think he�s going to take me up on it. In any case, December 31 will be our swimming day. And that�s how we�ll bid farewell to 2007.