Happy Camper

The great Chris Tucker once said, “You can’t be everywhere at once.”* Well, he didn’t exactly say it in those words, but that was the idea. I’ve been lucky enough to be in many places, but always one place at a time. The downside of this big adventure is that I’m always missing out on something back home. I’ve missed Christmas with my immediate family two of out the last three years. As for weddings and babies, let’s just say that my friends are dropping like flies and I’ve been absent for these special occasions more often than I care to admit.

After breezing through the Bay Area for ten days this summer, I arrived in Colombia in mid June. It was great to be home for my brother’s birthday and Father’s Day, but I did miss out on something that is near and dear to my heart—JazzCamp. No regrets, but while I was settling into my new home, a piece of my heart was back home in the woods, where I knew my friends were rocking out for the week. 

The good news is that ther's no shortage of great music here in Barranquilla. The city seems to have its own soundtrack, feeding my ears a steady stream of Salsa, Vallenato, Champeta, and the occasional unfortunate bit of Reggaeton or Banda. Half of the folks in the U.S.A. couldn’t clap on 2 and 4 to save their lives; but here, old ladies tap out clave rhythms on their bus seats while whistling a Joe Arroyo classic and balancing a bag of groceries in their other arm.

By day, I play in the Orquesta Tránsito Publico**... by night, I get my salsa fix at the various nightlife spots. The best known joint in town is La Troja, a two-floor open-air club, designated as cultural landmark. I was a little surprised to find that Salsa dancing here is pretty different than what I’m used to, but I’m doing my best to get in where I fit in. The bad news is that after two months, I still have not touched a piano. I know, I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again ("Notes" April, 2012). 

Don’t worry, I haven’t been slacking completely. With the constant music in my ears, I found myself drumming on whatever was in reach—tabletops...my lap... my friends. They were starting to get annoyed so I decided to hunt around for some real percussion—either a caja vallenata or a pair of bongos. I started studying percussion—mostly congas—in elementary school with Mike Margolis. I never lost the love for it, but since high school my percussion education has been limited to my annual week at Camp. While this is no recipe for becoming a master, I’m still grateful for all the hours I’ve spent since 1998 soaking up knowledge from two of the greats, Carolyn Brandy and John Santos. Over time I adoptem them as my unofficial Percussion Parents—no they are not a couple, but yes, we have been mistaken as an actual family. 

Unfortunately, percussion skills cannot be inherited via imaginary genes, so I guess I’ll just have to practice. No worries, I’m up to the task. After a healthy hunt, I purchased a new pair of bongos last week, and I’m already practicing. I hope I don’t disturb the neighbors... wait, they’re already blasting music.

Pura Vida,

Drew

* A very inexact quote from movie, Dead Presidents.

** The Public Transit Orchestra. No, this is not an actual group.

Death To Mayonnaise

As my journal, hobby, and therapy, this blog has often carried my reflections on food in my life as a volunteer abroad. In “Now We’re Cooking” (October, 2011) I mapped out the direct link between my sanity and having access to a kitchen to cook my own meals. In the very next post (“Sugar and Spice,” October, 2011) I celebrated the arrival—via care-package—of spices, marinades and what should have been a year’s supply of Sour Patch Kids. “Commitment and Canned Meat” (December 2011) was a study in will power, and what it means when canned hot dogs actually start to sound tasty. More recently, before leaving Cape Verde, I reflected on the different eat-spots that I had grown to love in São Vicente (“Restaurant Quality,” May 2012).

Here I am—again—seven weeks into a new adventure in a new country, in a world of culinary opportunities... and obstacles. The good news is, I’ve been here before. I won’t get into whether I like Cape Verdean or Colombian food more—they both have the potential to be absolutely delicious or utterly disappointing. What matters is that it’s not what I grew up eating; therefore, I have to get my mind right, get myself a game-plan, and work the plan. 

I live with a host-family, and eat two meals a day at home. Normally, this is a small breakfast—coffee with some combination of arepas, empanadas, papa rellena*, deditos, bollo or eggs. A typical dinner might be arroz con pollo or carne** with a sopita ("a little soup") on the side.

I am blessed to work in a program with a nutritional element. In addition to playing soccer and doing workshops, our students also eat snack and lunch at the center—which means, so do I! I was recently singing the praises of my Peace Corps dental insurance, but free lunch is easily the second most valuable work benefit that I enjoy. The meal is different everyday and it’s always served with fresh squeezed juice—patilla, melón, mora, maracuyá, tomate de arbol, guayaba, and more. Plus, since it is brought to you by Nu3, you know it’s tasty and nutricious!

I’m not big on sweets, but I do love to get my snack on in various ways. Since there are no Sour Patch Kids to be found in-country, I’ve had to be more creative. Luckily, in Barranquilla I’n never more than 100 yards aways from a delicious avocado, available at your local street vendor or market for the equivalent of 50 cents (lime and salt optional).

When I’m not eating at home or work, I’m exploring new spots around town. My friend Emily has turned me onto some excellent pizza at Panaderia 20 de Julio. Even better is when I’m lucky enough to enjoy a home-cooked meal at a friend or colleague’s house. Fourth of July was a great excuses for us to gather around and celebrate the fine cuisine of the American Melting Pot (pasta, watermelon, chips & salsa, Budweiser). 





I can still taste the tastiness of the authentic Italian meal that my Country Director (boss) and his wife served up over a week ago. Thank you, Napoli, for brining Signori Baldino into our lives.

Overall, food has been no problem here in Colombia. According to the plan I mentioned before, I have taken a few steps to keep it kosher. One of the first things I did was buy a bottle of hot sauce to keep near. My host-family wants no part of it, but they see that I love it and they respect that. Now I find that bottle waiting next to my plate of food when I sit down to eat. One can never underestimate the importance of condiments when it comes to food sanity. With that I mind, I recently made a trip to the big grocery store in the city to grab some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. But sometimes it’s not about what condiments you put on your food—it’s about what you don’t put on it.

Earlier this week, I felt the time was right to make my first foray into the kitchen at home to cook a meal for myself. I chose the simplest thing possible: pasta. I grabbed a pack of spaghetti from the corner store and almost bought some “tomato sauce” before remembering that it was really ketchup. Instead, I grabbed a few fresh tomatoes, garlic and a bell pepper from a street vendor and went to work. As expected, a could feel a few members of my host-family start to creep in close over my shoulder as I started to boil the water. “Stay calm,” I told myself, “just stick to the plan.” I positioned myself between them and the stove, boxing them out of the paint just long enough to get the noodles al dente.*** Then I threw in the chopped tomatoes and a little butter, and began to plate it up. Reaching over the pot, my cousin immediately started to reel off a list of everything that my pasta was missing. Actually, I agreed with some of his suggestions (bell pepper, garlic), but explained that I was too hungry and lazy to sauté them up—plus, he was using the only pan at that moment. But then he told me that what my pasta was really missing was mayonnaise... and that's when I lost it. I pivoted, clearing him out—possibly a loose-ball foul—and made it clear that my pasta DID NOT FALTA MAYONESA! He backed down, and we all laughed about it, agreeing that there were a hundred different ways to make pasta. Plus, I reminded them that there were plenty of things (like hot sauce) that I love that they wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

The pasta turned out fine, although it was admittedly bland. The important thing is that I survived the process without pissing off or offending my host-family. Like I've said before, cooking a meal brings me peace of mind, even when it's just boiled noodles, tomatoes and butter. After I knocked down two bowls and retired to my bed to enjoy the rest of my lunch break, my host-mom popped her head in the door.

“Baby, can I finish off the rest of the spaghetti in the pot?” And nothing could have made me happier.

Pura Vida,

Drew

* "Papa rellena" literally means "stuffed potato." Not to be confused with the better-known Peruvian papa rellana, the local version is more like a thinner-skinned samosa, without the heavy spices.

** Carne = meat

*** Yes, they were appalled that I did not cook the pasta for another 30 minutes.

The Key

Language is key. Over the past few years I’ve written a few times about how words can open doors. “Finding My Way” explored the vocabulary of the streets of Johannesburg. “BULA!” shared my thoughts from Fiji about how every culture seems to have a magic word that means everything and nothing at the same time. I’m still not exactly sure what that magic word is here in Barranquilla, but one possibility might be “listo.” Technically, “listo” can mean “ready” or “prepared” (estar listo) or “smart” (ser listo). But here in Colombia, “listo” seems to be a word that gets thrown around in so many different situations that it is near-impossible to define it. By my count, it can mean “great,” “OK,” “word is bond,” and a few more things for starters.

Admittedly, “listo” has not seeped into my vocabulary, so the jury is still out on how magical this word actually is. Instead, another word has captured my imagination in the last few weeks. As a child of the Bay Area, I've always appreciated the beauty of slang,—the good, the bad, and the outlandish—and in my mind there are a thousand ways to call a friend a friend. Just in case you think I’m exaggerating, I’ve compiled a short list to give you a taste...

A - Amigo, Ace

B - Boy, blood, Brother / Bro / Brohan / Brah, Bestie, Boo

C - Cousin / Cuz / Cutty

D - Dog / Dawg

E - Ese

F - Family / Fam / Fam-bam

G - Guey

H - Homie, hermano

I - Igloo

J - Jump-Off, Joker

K - Kemo Sabe

L - Loc

M - Main Man, Mate

N - Nupe, Ninja, Nizzle

O - O.G.

P - Potna, peeps

Q - Queen

R - Rellie / Relish, Roll-dog

S - Sister, Son

T - Team

U - Umbrella

V - Vato

W - Weebles, wingman, whodie

X - Xylophone

Y - Youth 

Z - Zebra

Unfortunately, the vast majority of these terms of endearment would fall on deaf ears if I tried to use them here in Colombia. Luckily, I’ve come across a new one for the list—one that just my be my favorite to date. Here, my main man is “mi llave”—my key. Think about it... isn’t that perfect? Plus, since there is no letter “ll” (double-l) in English*, there was an open slot on the list!

I’ve been in Colombia for about six weeks now, and as of today there are two folks who I would (and do) call “mi llave.” The first is Javi, another Peace Corps Response Volunteer who works with Fútbol Con Corazon. So far he has been key—a solid work colleague, soccer and basketball teammate, wingman, and overall P.I.C.** Can I get a chest bump?

“Mi otro llave” is Alberto, my counterpart at Fútbol Con Corazon, the organization where I work. To clarify, every Peace Corps Volunteer is paired up with a counterpart—a host-country national with whom we work side-by-side during our service. Our counterparts are not our bosses or our subordinates, they are our teammates. Our primary responsibility as development workers is capacity-building, and ideally, that process starts with our counterparts. As you can imagine, this is a lot easier said than done. Establishing and managing the counterpart relationship may be the most complex, sensitive and challenging aspect of Peace Corps service—for the volunteer, for the counterpart, for Peace Corps Staff and for the host-country organization. In a word, the counterpart relationship is key. In this sense, I have been blessed.

Last week I had the opportunity to attend a weeklong workshop on Leadership and Project Management with my counterpart. The workshop was facilitated by the Training Staff from Peace Corps Panama, who flew in from across the border to work with us for the week. I’ve long had an interest in Project Management, so I was happy to attend. While I took some practical nuggets of wisdom away from the experience, what I really appreciated was the opportunity to develop the counterpart relationship.

I won’t bore you with a summary of what we covered. What I will say is that it was obvious that my counterpart was pleased to participate, and that he got a lot out of it. On the second day of the workshop we all designed envelopes for ourselves and posted them on one of the walls of the conference room. Over the course of the next few days, we all wrote short, positive notes to other participants and slipped them into their envelopes. At the end of the week we all took home our envelopes and had the pleasure of reading what people had written to us—sometimes anonymously, sometimes not. Corny? Yes. Effective? Definitely. The idea is that everyone needs some love, even at work. I’ll be the first to admit that I loved reading the notes, even the ones that were downright ridiculous. For example, Javi “thanked” me for not inviting him to hang out with me and three young ladies. Perhaps my favorite note was an anonymous one, with just two words scrawled on it... “Mi llave.” I see you, Alberto.

Pura Vida,

Drew

* In Spanish the double “l” is considered a single letter, and is pronounced like an English “y.” Or, if you’re Argentinian, you would pronounce like an English “y” with a mouth full of peanut butter. So, “mi llave” is pronounce “mee yah-veh.”

** Partner-In-Crime... please do not take this literally, we have been extremely well-behaved.

Occupational Hazards

One of the best parts of serving in the Peace Corps are the benefits. And I’m not talking about the fluffy, sense-of-accomplishment, I-feel-like-I’m-changing-the-world-while-learning-a-new-language kind of benefits. I’m talking about full medical and dental. In recent years, Peace Corps has unfortunately made some headlines due to some of the dangers associated with being a volunteer. Fortunately, I still haven’t been mugged, assaulted, or anything of the sort. BUT, there are times when I find myself thanking my lucky stars that I’m more or less covered should something ever go down. Case in point...

Midway through last week I overheard my coworkers saying something about what we were going to be doing on Saturday. Wait up... hold the phone... I think I heard a “Saturday” in there somewhere in a conversation about work. 

“Ohhhh, nobody told you? We’re doing a group clean-up on Saturday morning from 8am until noon!”

Yay, right? Well, I wasted no time reviewing my contract, and believe-it-or-not, there is no I-don’t-work-on-Saturdays clause in it. No surprise... par for the course when you work with kids... especially in the wonderful world of youth soccer. Besides, this would hardly be the first clean-up campaign that I’ve been a part of, and  The last time I got my hands dirty like that was with the University of Johannesburg as part of our Mandela Day initiative. This would certainly be another worthy cause, as the soccer fields in my barrio have been crying out for some love and attention.

So, when saturday morning rolled around, I stumbled out of bed, scarfed down an arepa, and headed out the door, ready to tackle some trash. But, on my way out, my host-mom stopped me with an unexpected question. “Don’t you need a machete?” In my infinite naïveté, I looked at here like she was a little nuts.

“No, no, don’t worry.” After all, I was planning on picking up some bits of trash, not hacking it into even smaller bits. So I strolled over to the field, feeling ready to do my part. The first person I saw when I arrived was my co-worker, Danilo, hunched over a stone, grinding his machete in preparation for battle. All of the sudden, I had a flashback to Cape Verde. In any standard portuguese dictionary, the definition of the word “limpar” is “to clean.” BUT... in Cape Verdean Creole, “limpar” often refers to the annual arduous process of clearing your land of all vegetation in preparation for planting a new crop... as in "Nos ten ki limpar lugar."* It’s kind of like weeding, except you do it with a panga and it takes a lot longer. So, I connected the dots, albeit a little late. When they said “limpiar / clean-up,” they weren’t just talking about the trash. Instead, we were all scheduled for a date with the bushes surrounding the two soccer fields (one big and one small). So, I tucked in my lower lip, walked back home, and took my host-mom up on her previous offer.

As I headed out the door, my host-mom offered a casual warning... “Watch out for the snakes.” I flinched, but only on the inside. On the outside I smiled and replied, “It’s better they bite me than the kids.” You see, this “clean-up” wasn’t just about aesthetics... this was about workplace safety... Every time a ball goes of the field, one of the kids has to chase it down. Obviously, we'd rather not have them dodging snakes along the way. Which brings me back to the topic of full medical. There’s nothing to make you thank your lucky insurance plan like a few hours of weed-wacking through snake-infested super-grass.** Honestly, the thing that scared me the most was not the prospect of a snake bite. In face, by the time one kid shouted out, "Hey look, snake eggs," I was already in the zone. What really had me on edge was working in close proximity to a bunch of machete-wielding preteens. It reminded me of something i used to say back home when kids would do really stupid things with themselves while under my care... "Hey, their parents signed the waiver."

The sad truth is that these kids were much, much more effective and experienced in the ways of the machete than me... as their snickering constantly reminded me. So, after about an hour of hacking away at the grass, I surrendered my machete to an eight-year-old, donned the rubber gloves from my Peace Corps-issue medical kit, and went in search of some loose trash to pick up. Last week I showed my counterpart how to use some essential functions in Excel, but when it comes to machete-work, there was no capacity-building to be done.

Thankfully, I made it through the morning without getting accidentally shanked. The only health-related consequences were the blisters on my first-world hands and the extreme water loss suffered as a result literally sweating buckets. I headed home, ate lunch, and scratched my body incessantly until the water came back on in the house.*** Thankfully, I was able to squeeze in a quick shower before heading out for my weekly game of soccer in the city. Which brings me back again to the theme of coverage.

Eleven years ago, while playing pickup basketball in Washington, D.C., I took a forearm to the kisser, which broke my front tooth in half. After a root canal and a porcelain crown, I went on with my life without further incident... until last weekend. Just a few minutes into our soccer game, a(nother) flying elbow caught me square in the grill. Seconds later, I was spitting out the back half of “my” tooth**** and nursing a swollen lip. I was understandably pissed off, but by the end of the game I was just thankful that I didn’t knock the whole thing out. After all, I remember what it was like to walk about for a week with a missing front tooth... talk about prejudice. It’s hard enough to catch a cab as it is.

Being no stranger to soccer-related injuries, I bounced back in time to go out dancing later that night. Because of my swollen lip, I volunteered to be Javi’s wingman for the night, and assumed responsibility for making him look like the more attractive option. As of tonight, my tooth still hasn’t completely fallen out, and hopefully I can visit the dentist next week before it does. Like I said, I’m just glad I’m covered.

Pura Vida,

Drew


*Translation: "We have to clear/prepare the field."

** Yes, I am embellishing for added effect.

*** It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then the water “disappears” from our barrio. It’s kind of like a rolling blackout, but with water, and since I’ve been here, it’s never lasted for more than a few hours.


**** If your mama can call that hair and those nails "hers," then I can call my porcelain crown "my tooth." I paid for it, so it's mine!

What's My Name?

There’s so much in a name, and over the years I’ve had so many. My first name, given to me by my older brothers, was "Apple." I still have few cousins that call me that more than anything else. Thankfully, my parents decided that Apple wouldn’t fly on my birth certificate, so my government name ended up being Andrew Foster Williams. I love having my mom’s maiden name as my middle name—it’s not exactly sexy, but it makes me feel connected that half of my family, both dead and alive. For example, when my Colombian and Cape Verdean host families look at me like I’m crazy for dumping hot sauce all over my food, I can blame it on my Southern blood.

I once got called "Andy," but I shot that fool in the kneecap and it hasn't happened again since. My only other nickname as a child was Gizmo... I was the cute one, but legend has it that if you get me wet or feed me after midnight I will spawn two larger, uglier version known as Barry (Gremlin #1) and Jaime (Gremlin #2).*

Fore some reason, the only person that ever got away with calling me Drew as a youngster was my Godfather, Maurice. And then high school happened. Among many bad habits, teenagers are obsessed with calling their friends by anything but their real names. So one day I looked up, and I was Drew, just like that. Around the same time I started deejaying, but I was more focused on honing my craft than coming up with a cool name. My brother's friend, Dwight, had taken to calling me "Ref," which was short for refugee.** Being a fan of self-deprecation, I decided to adopt the moniker as my DJ name, so my first semi-crappy mix-tapes and parties were brought to you by DJ Ref.

As a freshman in college I crossed the burning sands and became a Nupe. The name I was given by my Kappa Chi brothers—the name that I earned—was Sokrates. I thought that was a significant upgrade from refugee status, so I became DJ Sokrates in 2001. I've always been a proud Virgo, so I began recording music under the name "Sokrates The Virgo" after my mom—also a Virgo—passed away later that year. It looked kinda cool when I wrote it out, but it sounded a little ridiculous/pretentious when you said it out loud—as in, "Hi, my rap name is MC I'msuperprodoundandspiritual"—and that just wasn't the look that I was going for. Besides, everyone in the music community had already started calling Soks or Sok, so I decided to roll with it—and so I became Sok The Virgo.***

Then one I woke up one day in 2007 and realized that the music business was a horrible and awful lifestyle that was sucking my life-force dry. Actually, that’s a little extreme. Really, I fell out of love with the business over the course of a year or so, and eventually decided that I had enough cool stories to tell my future grandchildren. What I really wanted to do was coach and play soccer, so I threw myself into it, and became Coach Drew.

So, what am I trying to say? As I've evolved through a few different stages of life, and moved through a few different time zones, my name has always been an important reflection of what my mission is. I can be as simple as the difference between André (portuguese) and Andrés (spanish). Or it can be as huge as the difference between Sok the Virgo and just plain Drew. I still answer to any of these names, but I cherish the difference between them all. When someone calls my name, the name they choose to call me speaks volumes about the relationship that we have. Did we meet backstage or at the studio? Have we known each other since the diaper days? Did you pawn your kids off on me every Saturday morning for a few years?

           

Since we never stop growing, it’s only appropriate that I now have another new name—"Profe" (pronounced "proh-fay"). Profe is short for Profesor, which in spanish just means teacher. Ironically, I hated it when my Cape Verdean students would call me “Teacher." But “Profe” has a classy ring to it, and “coach” sounds funny when you say it with a Colombian accent. Every day I wake up and walk to work, and in just a few short blocks I hear little voices yelling “Profe, Profe” from inside houses and behind bushes. A little boy looks up from a game of marbles to greet me with a beaming smile... “Profe!” An old woman in a rocking chair gives me a nod while rolling out a handful of bollo... "Profe!"






It's not just a name, it's my responsibility and my place in the community. Our center serves over 400 kids, age 5-15—a good size for any program.**** Now consider that our community only has about 8500 people living in it, and you can imagine the impact of the program. Being Profe puts me at the center of it all, and it is the most rewarding thing that I can imagine. For the last few weeks I've had the challenge of working with a young boy who needs a lot more than a little extra attention. Just to be clear, I've never met a 6 year old that didn't have "special needs," but this boy makes me rethink my skepticism about drugging kids with attention deficit disorder. Today was a particularly challenging day. I spent most of the two-hour session in negotiations with my little buddy—being ignored, punched, kicked, bitten, spit on, and occasionally hugged. I'm not gonna lie—at one point I looked at him an thought to myself, "If you were my son, I'd spank the sh*t outta you."



I'm not proud to admit it, but I had given up, and was secretly praying that his family would just decide it wasn't working and would keep him home from the next class. It really got me wondering what kind of discipline, if any, this boy receives at home. Last week his mom was so late coming to pick him up that I walked him halfway home before meeting her in the street. Today I told him that we were going to have a nice, long talk with his mother and grandmother about his behavior. As we walked home hand-in-hand, he started to drag his feet, and his eyes teared up. "Profe, please don't tell them," he pleaded.

"Why shouldn't I?" I asked.

"Because they will beat me," he sobbed. Well, what do you say to that? Obviously, it stopped me dead in my tracks, literally and metaphorically. For the next few seconds, my head swirled with thoughts about my responsibilities as Profe. Wasn't I the one who was silently advocating a swift kick in the ass just a few minutes before? But really, it was a no-brainer—of course I wouldn't rat him out. Instead, we made a pact. He promised me he could and would do better, and I promised him that as long as he did, I wouldn't be knocking on his mama's door. We walked on for a few minutes until we came to a house with an open front door. "This is it! Ciao, Profe!" He was clearly anxious to see me on my way.

"Hola?" I called in to the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of an adult—no luck. We slapped high fives a few times, then I started to walk away. After a few steps I turned back to check him out. After checking to make sure that I wasn't looking, the little man scurried a little further down the black and slipped in the front door of a little white house—the one he actually lives in.

Pura Vida,

Drew

*At age 14 I was about 4’11”, 98 lbs (1.50m, 44kg)—do the math.

** My older brothers still deny that there is any truth behind this legend... but have you noticed how you never see them and the gremlins in the same room at the same time? I’m just sayin’.

*** I still deejay under the name DJ Sokrates. 

**** Fútbol Con Corazon serves 2,000 kids in the Barranquilla area, and is part of the Fútbol por la Paz network that serves 25,000 kids throughout Colombia.