Despedida

Good-byes are a fixture in the life of a nomad, such as myself. This good-bye is different. It is final. I can say with almost certainty that I will never come back to Angola. There are many people here who were important to me that I will never see again. There is much about this place that I won’t miss, but people do not fall into that category. My students, colleagues, and friends have made it all worthwhile. On Sunday, my friend Julie and I had a “despedida” or going away party on my roof. We shared a meal, drinks, and laughter with our friends and colleagues for the last time and marveled at how sad we were about leaving. There were countless times when I said to myself, “I have to get the hell out of here!” but when it finally came, I was not quite as ecstatic as I imagined I would be. It’s the end of a chapter that will forever live on in my memory as a defining period in my life.

I leave with a sense of pride and accomplishment for the work that I have done and the hope that the progress I have made will continue long after I’m gone. Angola will always hold a place in my heart and mind for the experiences I've had and the things I've learned, not only about my profession, but about myself. I found love here, and lost a student. I was challenged in ways that I never thought possible and struggled with the balance of my own expectations and reality. It is my wish that this past year has made me a more compassionate and patient person as well as a more perceptive and understanding educator.

The other night, in the car on the way home from dinner, my friend asked me, “Are you hopeful about Angola?” I didn't know what to say. That’s a difficult question. My innate optimism wanted to say yes, but my experience here wanted to say no. Of course I want things to get better. I want my students to live in a place where hard work is recognized and rewarded. I want them to believe that anything is possible, and that they have the power to build a better life for themselves and their families. That place doesn't exist for them now, but I hope and pray with all my heart that someday soon it will.

For now, I will leave you with some parting words from my favorite fellow traveler:

"Travel isn't always pretty. It isn't always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart, but that's okay. The journey changes you. It should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind." - Anthony Bourdain

This and That

·         Last week, one of the professors in the English Department, who I have had maybe two conversations with the whole year, came up to me and said, “I heard you were leaving.”

“Yes. I am,” I replied, expecting him to wish me a good trip or tell me it was a pleasure working with me.

“I have this dress that I want you to send to a woman in New York. I’ll bring it to your office with the address.”

I lacked the reaction time to respond appropriately to such a ridiculous request and just uttered, “Ummm OK, I guess.” Sure enough, the next day there was a plastic bag sitting on my chair when I arrived at my desk. I’m sure it never occurred to him that I may have better things to do when I get home than go to the post office to send a dress to the lady friend of an Angola man I barely know. It’s always a risk telling people that you are traveling outside of the country, and especially to the US. You will be immediately bombarded with a list of absurd demands from iPhones and laptops to sneakers and books. When my driver found out that I was going home in October, he asked me no less than 12 times if I would bring him back a shirt – nothing in particular – just a shirt from America.  

·         People really like certificates here. I have been organizing workshops for teachers every other week at the Embassy, and if a participant attends 3 out of 5 in a series then he or she receives a certificate. I dread certificate day. There are always at least 2 people who become furious with me and insist that there must be some kind of mistake. They watch in disdain as their fellow teachers pose for a photo op with their fancy certificates. I try to be as understanding as possible and explain that if their attendance is better next time then they too can be part of the photo. What I really want to say is, “Grow up. This piece of paper means absolutely nothing.”

Knowing that this is a big deal, I made certificates for the students who have been volunteering at the orphanage. I even got the Ambassador to sign them. They were ecstatic. One student came to my office the next day and gave me a 5-minute diatribe about how he didn’t deserve the certificate but he will keep on working on hard so that he does. It was really very sweet. I ran into another student a couple days later and he proudly took the certificate out of his bag to show me that he had it laminated.  

·        One of my housemates left flowers outside of my bedroom door. This was not a bunch of flowers with a note attached or a bouquet in a vase. There were 12 little yellow flowers all lined up in a perfect row on the floor. There’s just something that that just screams psychopath.

·         Student essays in which they had to describe someone important to them: 

“My girlfriend lived in a house full of kids like a nursery. That was amazing like Michael Jackson Neverland.”

“My father is strong, quiet, polite, humble, decisive, and kind, but he likes to have many women…I am also polygamous.”

·        One morning, I was about to make coffee and the driver walked in the kitchen so I offered him some. He said yes so I made two cups of coffee and went back upstairs to finish getting ready for work. When I came back down, he and the guard were chatting and each sipping from a mug. I looked over at the coffee pot and it was empty. Thanks, guys.

·         I have an old Nokia cell phone with a huge crack in the screen that someone gave to me from the lost and found at the embassy. It’s one of those pre-paid phones that don’t require a plan, just the purchase of minutes every few days (bought on the street of course). Those of you familiar with “The Wire” know it as a “burner.” Apparently drug dealers use them once and then throw them out their car windows to avoid police detection. I am tempted to do that all the time to feel cool. You know what’s not cool? Running out of minutes. I have had to ask complete strangers on several occasions if I could use their phones because I am a deadbeat with no credit. No one wants to be that guy. Since text messages are far cheaper than calling, people will often send me a blank text, which means that I am supposed to call them because they don’t want to use their credit. Hey, I don’t want to use mine either, buddy! This creates somewhat of a power struggle over who should call whom. I do the same thing to my Embassy friends, since they are apparently too good for burners and use real phones.  

·         Word on the street is that absolutely nothing gets done here in December and that traffic gets even worse than usual. People have offered several explanations for this, but the general consensus is that most of it has to do with Christmas shopping. Most Angolans living in Luanda buy everything from street vendors rather than stores so perhaps people are playing hooky and driving around all day looking for the perfect gift. You can buy virtually everything on the street – carpets, toilet seats, luggage, and air mattresses. I saw a guy the other day walking around with rubber duckies hanging from both arms. I was a bit surprised since I consider those somewhat of a luxury item.

A few weeks ago I needed to buy new headphones for my iPod so I asked the driver if he could stop if we see anyone. He quickly rolled down the window and yelled out to one of the guys on the street who immediately ran over. He was selling flip flops and underwear, but of course he knew someone who had what we were looking for. He scurried over to get his friend, who had wires dangling from every limb and orifice. I handed my money to the driver who completed the transaction. Mind you, this is all being done while still in moving traffic and the vendor is lightly jogging beside the car. This may be the only benefit of the snail-like traffic patterns in Luanda. The driver hands me the headphones, which I swiftly plugged into my iPod to make sure they worked. They did. Easy enough. Almost immediately after the wire man walked away, I adjusted the headphones ever so slightly and the plastic covering completely slid way revealing the blue and red wires inside. How could this Chinese, cheaply-made product that I just bought on a street in Luanda be defective? Unacceptable! I showed the damaged goods to the driver, who was outraged. He pulled the car over, grabbed the headphones, jumped out of the car, and ran down the street in search of the offending seller. He returned 5 minutes later with a brand new set of headphones and his pride restored. I was relieved that my $10 had not gone to waste and that I would be able to entertain myself for the rest of the ride home. Of course only the right earpiece works.

This is a test

Instead of giving my classes a final written exam, I assigned a project in which they had to create a news story about an issue facing Angolan society. They were told to form groups of 3 or 4 and were required to conduct at least 3 interviews in English in order to gather information for the report. I designed the project in such a way that it was virtually impossible for them to copy and paste from a Wikipedia page. More for my own sanity than anything else. I really didn't think I could physically survive reading another 100 copyrighted papers.
Each group had to submit a short paper and give a 5 minute presentation about their topic. I assigned the project 3 weeks before exams started, which I should mention is a 6-week spectacle. There are 2 weeks of exams, which the professors take their sweet time correcting. This is then followed by not 1 but 2 "retakes." I haevn't seen it with my own eyes, but have been told that this system is rife with corruption, ie students paying professors in order to receive higher grades. When I received my final exam schedule, I immediately noticed that the Department Head had scheduled 2 exams on November 5th - an Angolan holiday, and not just any holiday. It's Angolan Idependence Day. So it would pretty much be like the administration of an American university accidentally scheduling exams on the 4th of July. I called the Department Head, who had not noticed the mistake until I brought it to his attention.
"Oh, I guess we didn't realize that. Well, it's no problem. You can just schedule your exams whenever you want, " was his solution.
Ummm so now I am responsible for getting in touch with all the students and figuring out another time to take the exam? Last time I checked, that is your job buddy, not mine. I called the class delegates, who were not at all phased by the mishap, since they are very accustomed to such dysfunction, and they assured me that they would let everyone know of the change. Not off to the best start.
I wish I could say that the student presentation blew me away and I finally felt like I had reached these students. Sorry, folks, but there are no happy endings here. Not only were the presentations remarkably underwhelming, but I had major discinplinary issues to deal with throughout the exam period. Students coming in late, talking during presentations, groups of people coming and going, etc. I was forced to lecture each class repeatedly about respecting one another by listenting and paying attention. Definitely not things that should need to be explained at the college level. They also insisted on asking me questions while their classmates were presenting. "Professor, there are 6 people in our group. It's OK?" Nope. The most infuriating part about the whole experience was that most people were talking because they were preparing their presentations. Seriously?! You had 3 weeks to do this! And this is your final exam! Get it together, guys.

The silver lining in all of this is that the papers include some real gems. Here are some of my favorites:

"Many have no hygiene with their own body and when they enter the bus a salad of Russian unpleasant smells."

Taken from a report on transportation problems in Luanda, the content of which focused entirely on the poor hygiene of bus passengers. 

An excerpt from: Declining of Moral Values in Terms of Dressing Among Ladies in Luanda

"A university student said that he loves to see girls wearing “tchuna baby” (very short dress) he can date one but he would never marry her because she is a girl who belongs to everyone and his future wife must preserve her reputation. He also adds that nowadays things are easy because he remembered that when he was a little boy it was really difficult to see a girl’s underwear, but now it is too easy, even if you don’t want to see you will." 

"When you dress like a prostitute, you will be addressed as one."

I feel like my mother gave me this exact same warning right around the time I started experimenting with make-up and low-cut shirts, except she used the term “floozy” instead of prostitute. 

"The clients in the town city of Luanda are from all ages, and they are not permitted to take long in the act, the maximum time for a F*** is less than 5 minutes. If they take long they double the price or they tell them to leave."

The students wrote the F word numerous times though the paper in bold, capital letters, and underlined. They wrote the actual word, but since this blog is PG, I did some censoring.

This list was included in a report on traditional weddings. Should ring a bell with regular readers. 

Things requested for bride price:

500 USD or 400 USD

2 bottles of whiskey (Johnnie Walker)

Cloth type wax Nederland’s 

12 boxes of soft drink

12 boxes of beer

1 flagon of wine

1 flagon of maruvu (traditional drink)

Cola (a bitter product which is used when maravu is being drinking)

1 suit and 1 pair shoes for the father of the woman

1 suit and 1 pair of shoes for the uncle of the woman (brother of the mother)

1 cock and 1 chicken

1 kid

Blankets for grandparents of woman

Cigarettes

Somewhere along the line, these students were told that they had to include a dedication every time they handed in an assignment to a teacher. Here are some of my favorites:

I wish to sincerely register my appreciation to my family and friends, sweetheart and all people who like me.

Firstly we thank God for all the things that did for us and we want thanks our Dear and Loved Teacher Brigid Nee.
I prefer to be addressed Honorable and Beloved Leader, but this will do

First we would like to thank the almighty God, the one who gave us strength and will to seek knowledge. Our beloved teachers for keeping us though since the beginning and gave us a piece of idea for the enrichment of this assignment. Mother, friends, and all those who influenced direct or indirectly, from Chinese man that printed our paper, to our classmates who found mistakes in the writing stuff so that we promptly corrected it and could go back to the Chinese man to print again. Thank you! 

The Rollercoaster

You have good days and bad days, people always say. Well here, it’s more like good hours and bad hours. There are hardly any days that are completely good, but on the other hand there aren’t too many days that are all bad. One of the highlights of my experience here has been working with the scholarship students at the high school in Cazenga. Friday was my last day with them so we had a little party and watched a movie. About halfway through the movie, the sky turned an ominous dark gray. Minutes later, it started to downpour. Immediately, I thought to myself, “oh shit.” The roads in Cazenga are all dirt, and even though it is only a few miles from the Embassy, it takes about 45 minutes to get out of there, and that’s on a good day. Even a light rain transforms the streets into a muddy nightmare. My boss texted me with: You better get out of there now! We had to cut our party short, but not before the students presented me with a beautiful gift and a heartfelt letter. As the student read it aloud, I could feel the emotions coming to the surface. I started to think that maybe I had made some small difference here and I for that I am proud. Maybe these kids will work just a little harder or have some hope in the future because I took an interest in them. I want them to know that I hope with all my heart that someday their lives won’t be quite so hard. 

As I left the school and made a run for the car in the pouring rain, for the first time, I felt sad about leaving Angola. That feeling didn't last very long, however. Bumper to bumper traffic has a way of replacing the warm and fuzzies with anxiety and nausea. It took about an hour and a half to get to my office, which wasn't too bad considering the roads looked like this:

I arrived at my deserted office. I assumed that no one would come to work due to the weather, but I went anyway since I was supposed to submit my final grades to the department. I had also scheduled several appointments with students who had missed their exams for one reason or another. They also didn't show up. Again, not shocking. When I finally admitted to myself that there was no possibility of accomplishing my goals for the day, I called the driver and asked him to pick me up at the university. I told him to come to the back entrance since the parking lot looked like this: 

He said that he would be there in "10 minutes," which in Angolan terms could mean anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour. Sure enough, about 40 minutes later he calls me and says he's outside. I gather my things and head downstairs, but I don't see him at the back, so I go around to the parking lot, but he is not there either. I call him and ask where he is. "I'm here. At the Embassy." I almost lost it. At this point, the entire city is one big traffic jam so I know it will take another hour for him to come pick me up and then God only knows how long it will take to get home. The fact that it is so incredibly difficult to expect a person to show up at a specific time and place never ceases to amaze me. For the second time that day, I felt the warm sensation of tears, but this time it was due to anger and frustration, rather than joy and nostalgia. This can't be  healthy. I have to get out of here. After hanging up the phone, I went back upstairs to my office, ripped open my bag, and took out the letter. I took a few deep breaths, sat down, and just waited. At least now, when I am having a bad moment, I have this:

Giving Thanks

This year was my first Thanksgiving away from home so I was a little nervous that I would be homesick. It hasn't happened too much here, but once in a while, when the whole family is together or I see a picture on Facebook with all of my friends sharing a drink, I get that nagging feeling like I am missing out. Holidays are especially hard to be away from home. The familiar faces, smells, and tastes are not here, but the spirit of the day certainly was. Thanksgiving is about taking a moment to share a meal with those around you and appreciate all that you have. I feel forunate to live in a place where I am reminded every day of how blessed I am; not only for what is waiting for me when I get back - family, friends, a roof over my head, but what I have here. In this chaotic little pocket of the world we live in, where daily life is often frustrating and we are surrounded by suffering, friends are what keep us going. I have already said good-bye to so many people here who I can truly call friends, and in 2 weeks I will bid farewell to many more. If this nomadic lifestyle has taught me anything, it's that people are far more important than places. I have lived in beautiful locales and been terribly lonely and in crappy ones and have had the time of my life. I'll take the crappy places any day. The people are usually cooler.  

Happy Birthday, Marines!

Last Saturday, I had the privilege of attending the 237th Marine Birthday Ball. The event was hosted by the Marine Security Guard Detachment at our Embassy in Luanda. These 6 young men are an outstanding group of individuals who I am honored to call friends. Marines bravely protect our diplomats and classified information throughout the world....and they sure know how to throw a party!

SECRETARY CLINTON'S MESSAGE ON THE 237TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE US MARINE CORPS

On behalf of the entire Department of State family, I am honored to extend my warmest congratulations and best wishes to you, the brave men and women of the U.S. Marine Corps, on the Corps' 237th birthday. "In every clime and place," Marines have repeatedly demonstrated

their valor and dedication to service; many have given the last full measure of devotion in defense of our liberty and freedom. To every Marine - those currently in uniform and those who have proudly worn it in the past - we thank you for your sacrifices, your courage, and your service to this country we all love.

This celebration provides all of us in the Department of State a special opportunity to acknowledge and thank all of the Marines who are serving and have served alongside our diplomatic personnel around the world. The Marine security guards in our embassies, consulates, and missions play a vital role in providing internal security to our facilities and vigilance over classified government information and equipment. These Marines do not just stand at "Post One" - they stand for the United States. In my travels, I have met many of our Marine security guards, and I am ceaselessly impressed by the manner in which they represent our country. We are likewise grateful to the many other Marines who even now are detailed to protect our facilities and personnel in volatile regions. For those you protect, it is a comfort to them to know that you are standing post, enhancing their safety and security, and enabling the vital work of our diplomatic and development professionals in a dangerous world.

Our Marine friends and colleagues have met unique challenges in supporting the Department, and they have - without exception - responded bravely and effectively.

They have responded to natural disasters, civil unrest, and violent attacks. They have defended the integrity of our facilities and worked courageously to save human life. I want to commend specifically the actions of Marines during recent incidents at our facilities throughout the world. Despite the dangers, their actions directly contributed to the safety of U.S. government personnel at these embassies, proving once again that every Marine lives the Corps' credo, "Semper Fidelis" - always faithful.

I join the entire State Department family, and indeed the entire country, in thanking all Marines, and especially those who have served and continue to serve side by side with the Department abroad, for selflessly performing their mission every single day and for being a Marine. We salute you and your work, today and every day.

Happy 237th birthday, Marines! Semper Fi!

*Special thanks go out to my favorite Marine, who is guarding the US Embassy in Yerevan, Armenia. As we all sat around the table and raised a glass, the Gunnery Sergeant remarked, "It takes a special kind of woman to love a Marine." Cheers to that! 

I Swear I'm Not a Witch

Until you have to explain the concept of Halloween and the things we do to celebrate it to a foreigner, you never realize how weird it is. While teaching international students in Boston and Miami, this was one of my favorite times of year. I would do Halloween-related activities all week and tell my students that wearing a costume to school was mandatory. It was awesome. My students were always a bit apprehensive about it. They didn't believe me that adults wore costumes until they went out to the bars the weekend of Halloween and witnessed it for themselves. The slutty nurse costumes were particularly disturbing to the Muslim students, but even they rolled with it.
In Angola, it's a different story entireley. I'm not on my home turf here and Halloween was not welcomed with open arms, to say the least. In a culture where witchcraft is still very much alive and well, they do not take kindly to dressing up like ghosts and decorating houses with tombstones. It hits a little too close to home. A couple weeks ago, I introduced my university students to Halloween with a short story about a couple of kids who went trick or treating, but stumbled upon a haunted house. "Teacher, I don't like this story," was the first reaction I got. Then the questions started. Why do you celebrate this? What is the history? Do religious people celebrate Halloween? I tried and tried to convey the idea that it's only for fun and it really doesn't mean anything and that it's not a religious holiday, but my efforts were in vain. One student looked up the word Halloween in his Portuguese-English dictionary. The translation was Dia dos Santos (Day of Saints). That definitely didn't help my cause. I felt completely defeated as the students half-heartedly completed their assignments, keeping an eye on their heretical teacher who was unsuccessfully trying to immerse them in some sort of pagan ritual.
The following week, I was asked to give a presentation about American culture to a group of high school students. The topic - Halloween. This time I was prepared. I knew about this event a few weeks in advance and since I had just traveled to the US, I picked up some Halloween candy to bring back with me. From what I have witnessed, most of public diplomacy involves giving stuff to people so that they like us, and by association, our country. So I followed suit. After a brief presentation where I showed pictures of jack-o-lanterns and cute kids dressed up like clowns and super heroes, I let the candy flow. As soon as they had mini packets of Skittles and individually wrapped Reese's peanut butter cups in their hands, they were fully on board with Halloween. I made everyone say "trick or treat" before reaching into the plastic cauldron, which was purely for my amusement, as they had no idea what they were saying.
The presentation also happened to be the day after the presidential election in the US, so I brought eleciton activity books that were sent to us from DC. Luckily, there was a page with my favorite activity - coloring! The students gently unwrapped their Starbursts and carefully filled in the Statue of Liberty's torch with a yellow crayon, and I thought, maybe this is how we get the rest of the world to like us -  bags of fun-sized candy and boxes of Crayolas. I might be on to something here.

Election Fever (Again)

As you would imagine, Barack Obama is extremely popular around here for reasons that are completely superficial. Most of my students are certain that he was born in Africa but are less sure about the specific country. Needless to say, they were very excited about the outcome of last week's election. When I went to school on Wednesday, Angolans kept saying "congratulations!" oblivious to the fact that almost half of Americans were not feeling particularly congratulatory that day. At the embassy as well, there was an overall assumption that everyone who walked through those doors was "on our side," meaning that Obama is the second coming and Romney is the devil. In passing, people said things like, "good news, huh?" or "we really dodged a bullet there!" I've never discussed politics with my colleagues, so why do they think we are all on the same team? Maybe we are. Maybe we're not. The point is that the assumption is disturbing and leads me to believe there is little to no real political discourse going on within the State Department. It's Obama's biggest fan club and if you don't want to join, then you better keep quiet or you'll be labeled an outcast, or even worse a Republican. Oh, the horror!

Ambassador McMullen

On Tuesday afternoon, we invited young Angolans to the embassy for an election night party. We organized a mock election in which Obama won 29-1. Considering no one in the room had ever even heard of Romney, it didn't come as a shock. I am pretty sure the 1 vote for Romney came from a young woman who asked me to translate the candidate profile sheet about him. When I told her he was a businessman, she exclaimed, "Oooh I like that!"

So who's this Mitt guy?

as transparent as it gets 

Coming and Going

I’m sorry Angola, but the US is just better. The past 8 months that I have spent in Angola is the longest period of time I’ve been out of the US. While other trips abroad, especially those to developing countries, really made me appreciate home, this experience has brought that appreciation to a whole new level. I found myself smiling to myself as I drove my own car to the grocery store. I gazed at the autumn leaves and the clear, blue sky. It was just your regular run-of-the-mill suburban side street, but to me, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The fact that I was able to hop in my car and go to Stop & Shop because I was really craving pumpkin spice creamer for my coffee, was just about the most amazing feat I could imagine. Upon arriving at the pristine store, full of shiny produce and clearly marked aisles, I became overwhelmed. Just like my first time at an Angolan grocery store, I walked around aimlessly, paralyzed by shock and awe. I didn’t put anything in my cart. I think this is what they call reverse culture shock. Unlike my Angolan shopping experience, where I felt lost and confused because I didn’t see anything remotely edible, this time there were too many things I wanted. I wanted it all. I went home and caught up on the DVR and just thought “Wow, this country is awesome,” and I couldn’t understand why I ever left such an amazing place.

The reason for my return was to attend my brother’s wedding; therefore, much of the week leading up to the big day was about pampering myself. Somewhere around the 4^th or 5^th month of being here, I started to let myself go. No makeup, pedicures, or highlights. I haven’t seen my blow dryer in ages and even started wearing flip flops to work. Before arriving back in the States, I made an absurd amount of beauty appointments – mani/pedi, facial, massage, haircut and color, eyebrow wax, you name it, I had it done. At the wedding, all my family and friends kept saying how great I looked. "­Oh, thanks," I humbly replied, but what I really wanted to say was, "I know! It took all week to look this good!"

The day before leaving for Angola, as my sister and I relaxed on the couch, I said "I can't imagine physically being back there." It seemed like a another world, another life. I was back to my real life, with my family and my friends who have known me for years, and I loved it.  Don't get me wrong, coming here has been one of the best decisions I have ever made and I like my life here too, but nothing compares to home. So now I'm back, and like most things, the idea of it was worse than the reality. Since it took 3 days to get here, I was more than delighted to be "home" when I finally landed in Luanda. I spent the weekend catching up with friends and sleep. Now it's Monday and it feels like I never left.





* I have to give a special shout out to my #1 fan and new dad, Jimmy Riel. I'm looking forward to awkwardly holding Molly again.

Angolan Road Trip - Part 4

Muxima

A few weeks ago, my friends and I decided to get out of the city for the day and head down to a little town on the Kwanza River. Muxima (Moo-she-ma) is home to a 16th century Catholic church built by the Portuguese. The Church of Our Lady of Conception is the site of an annual pilgrimage that has occurred every September since 1883. Families flock to the site and camp out on the banks of the river to get a chance to pray to the statue of Mary or "Mama Muxima." Women are especially attracted to this sacred site because Mama Muxima is said to bring fertility to those who pray to her. Judging by the fact that every woman in this country has a baby strapped to her back, I don't think fertility is an issue here, but what do I know?

The mass held outside of the church. There were too many people to fit inside the small, colonial church. 

We arrived to the church just in time to catch the end of the outdoor mass, which featured lively music and lots of enthusiastic pilgrims. The priest walked through the crowd spraying holy water on the congregation as those in the back fought to get closer so that they could feel a drop on their heads. When they did, they turned around and made way for others, a look of absolute joy on their faces as they sang the hymns at the top of their lungs. Growing up in the Catholic church, these rituals were not new to me, but I have never seen people so genuinely excited about holy water.
Angola is a fairly religious country, but I haven't quite figured it out yet. 47% of Angolans practice indigenous beliefs, 38% are Roman Catholic, and 15% Protestant. The Portuguese built churches while they ruled the country, but that was pretty much the extent of the Catholic influence. After independence, Protestant missionaries flooded the country. It seems to me that many Angolans have a adopted a sort of hybrid religion that combines indigenous beliefs with fundamentalist Christianity. When I ask students what they did over the weekend, they say things like "I was spreading the good word." or "I was in the church." The whole weekend?
One time, a student told me that some people are racist because they think that black people came from monkeys. I responded, "Well that doesn't make any sense because all people came from monkeys." Big mistake. "No teacher! People came from God!" The class began to stir and I realized that most of them did not believe in evolution and they were probably thinking that there teacher was a heathen. "So let's talk about  the present perfect!"

Mama Muxima statue

After mass, we set up a little tailgate in the church parking lot. Three women approached us and asked us if they could have a ride to a town that was on the way back to Luanda. Sure! Why not? All the female pilgrims, including our new hitch hiker friends were wearing wrap skirts with either the Virgin Mary or Jesus on them and T-shirts that had a picture of the statue and the words "Mama Muxima" on the back. A pilgrim uniform of sorts. Not wanting to feel left out, we asked them where one could buy such items. They led us to an area by the river and we were immediately surrounded by Mama Muxima merchandise - key chains, necklaces, shirts, hats, you name it. Like a rock concert, but for the Virgin Mary. We bought a few items that the ladies picked out for us and they insisted that we don them immediately. They were kind of enough to wrap Derek (above) in a beautiful Mama Muxima frock. I rocked my Mary concert T for the rest of the day and got several compliments. 

We all hopped in the car and headed back to the city. Our three new friends in the backseat. One of the women asked if we had any soda so I directed her to the cooler in the back. When she opened it she said, "Ooooh cerveja (beer)!" Hey, go for it. So there we were - driving down the road with three beer-chugging pilgrims. Weirdest Sunday funday ever.

Cabo Ledo

Not a bad scene to wake up to

Two hours south of the city lies a beautiful, pristine beach called Cabo Ledo. One the way down there last weekend, we stopped in a little fishing village to pick up some lobsters. After negotiating a price, a man swam out to the traps to collect our dinner. It doesn't get any fresher than that. I felt like Anthony Bourdain. After we set up camp, we threw those suckers on the fire. I ripped the head off with my hands and dipped the tail in melted butter. It was deliciously primal.

Even though I slept on the ground and mistakenly used a tent cover as a sleeping bag (maybe had one too many cervejas), it was the best sleep I've had in weeks. No incessant hum from the generators or club music thumping and rattling my window. I woke up not to the slamming of doors and yelling of the house staff but to the soft crash of waves and a warm breeze. It was the perfect way to start the day and re-energize for yet another week in the concrete jungle. 

The Meltdown

I could feel it coming. I started pacing around my room as my head became flooded with anxiety and frustration. The stress of many weeks piling up inside until there was no more room and it had to come out. I could feel my face becoming warm and flush, and then…the meltdown.

It was a Thursday night. I had just waited outside the embassy for the driver for 40 minutes. Each time I called him he was “5 minutes away.” If he wasn’t such a pathological liar I would have gone back inside so that I could avoid the local guards gawking at me in my gym attire. While standing on that sidewalk, I realized that I probably spend at least half of my time here in car, waiting for a car, or on the phone trying to get a car.
I finally arrived home to a house that had no electricity or water for the second day in a row. The new security guard, who I am almost certain is blind, told me that he had to call someone to get permission to turn the generator on. I watched an episode of Curb of Your Enthusiasm. There’s nothing like the extreme neurosis of others to bring you back down to earth. The power had come back on during the show, but still no water. Having not taken a shower that morning and working out that evening, the need for bathing was becoming imminent.

I decided I would cook, which is a relaxing activity for me. I walked downstairs to find that one of my housemates had completely taken over the kitchen. “Jim,” who has a wife and 4 young daughters at home in the UK was whipping up a meal while his Angolan girlfriend was perched on a stool watching him. Isn’t that cute?

“Hi Brigid,” she said. “Oh hey, (home wrecker).”

I hate cooking with other people in the kitchen and especially despise being in the company of these two so I pretended to grab something out of the fridge and headed back upstairs. I called the maintenance guy to ask about the water situation, and he informed me that the tanks would not be filled until the following day. Luckily, there is another staff house down the street so I threw my shampoo, conditioner, and soap in a plastic bag, grabbed a towel and headed outside. The street was exceptionally dark since the power was out and I needed the guard to escort me. Of course, he was nowhere to be found. The guard at the restaurant next door must have sensed my helplessness and offered assistance. I enjoyed a hot shower and walked back to my house in my pajamas and a towel on my head. I mean at this point, who do I have to impress?

I arrived home to find the formerly missing guard slumped over in a chair sleeping. He was wearing 1 boot and 1 flip flop. I can rest easy tonight knowing this man is responsible for my personal safety.  The adulterer and his mistress were still occupying the kitchen. It was getting close to 8:00 and I still had not eaten dinner so I was famished, but that was still better than having to share space with this couple. You know what I need? I thought. A beer. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. And then I remembered that I had some potato chips in the cupboard in my room. Ok, so beer and potato chips for dinner it is. I sat on my bed, mediocre Angolan lager in one hand and the other one deep in the bag of chips. It felt amazing for about 5 minutes but then reality set in. Oh dear, is this really happening? I called my boyfriend on Skype and just started crying and saying “I want to go home” as I licked the crumbs off my greasy fingers.  He stared back at me, trying to make sense of the scene before him, but had no idea what to say. He now thinks I am completely crazy.

Sometimes you just have one of those days when everything seems to go wrong and you snap. It can happen to anyone at anytime, but here, that could pretty much happen every day. No one wants to be that person who is constantly complaining, so you have to be patient and let a lot of stuff go and figure out a way to cope and stay positive. Apparently, my way of coping is bottling everything up for 7 months until I erupt.

Feriados!

If my travels have taught me anything, it's that people in most parts of the world don't like to work very much. Japan being the outlier of course - they take work to another level. Angola definitely falls in with the majority. As in Latin America, there is a plethora of holidays, and I've actually been told that there used to be a lot more but the government recently eliminated a bunch. The best part is that most of the time, people don't even know what the holiday commemorates. All they know is they don't have to go to work or school. This was also the case when I worked in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Every other week, it was Saint So-And-So Day. Each one of these "special days" was celebrated in the same way - block party. Here, there are definitely fewer religious holidays and considerably less fanfare. Whenever I ask my students what they did for the holiday, they inevitably respond, "I stayed in my home."
The Embassy is closed for both Angolan and American holidays. It's a miracle that anything gets done around here.

Surprise Holiday

This past Wednesday, the government announced that the presidential inauguration would be held the following day and it will be a national holiday. While Dos Santos has been president for 33 years, this past election marked the first time he actually won the seat by popular mandate. This would be the first time he would be officially inaugurated. No one told me of course, and since I don't listen to the national radio station, I was out of the loop. While I was making dinner, one of my housemates mentioned it, so I thought out loud, "Hmmmm I wonder if I have classes tomorrow." I called the Department Head who was "pretty sure" there were no classes. How do you not know? I asked him if the buildings would be open so that I could go into the office and correct papers. "Oh, yes. The buildings will definitely be open." I think you can see where this is going.
Class starts at 8am, which means I have to leave my house at 7, and so I wake up at 6. I decided that I would go to class on the off chance that students did show up, so I went with my normal routine. Because of the holiday, there were virtually no cars on the road. My commute to work was a miraculous 15 minutes. Sure enough, the place was completely deserted. We drove up to the gate and I asked the guard if the building was open. "Não! É um feriado!" No! It's a holiday! He seemed horrified that I would even attempt to work on such a sacred day. I explained to him that I had keys to my office so I just needed to get in the building. "Não. É muito complicado." What is so complicated about it? Without being able to get into my office, I couldn't get the papers and work from home, and what else was I going to do? Lie in bed all day watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians?
Finally, he opened the gate and let us into the parking lot but didn't open the door to the building, which was no help at all. I walked around the perimeter and ran into two other guards. They also refused to open the doors. I eventually accepted defeat and returned to the car. I apologized to the driver and told him to take me home. It fascinates me that the entire city shut down because of this  holiday that was invented less than 24 hours prior. I guess good news travels fast.
I ended up going to the movies and saw The Expendables 2, which was so ridiculously bad, that it was good. Plus, Chuck Norris made a cameo, so the day wasn't a complete waste.

I'm not angry. I'm disappointed.

Before the election break, I gave my 3rd and 4th year classes a writing assignment that was to be due the week that we returned to school. They were instructed to choose a famous person from Africa and write a 2-page biography, using at least 2 sources.The students' access to the Internet is limited and printed materials are scarce - how the only public university does not have a library is beyond me (but that's another story). Knowing this, I offered to help them with their research by printing articles for them at my office. I also knew that plagiarism is a huge problem here, and throughout Africa in general. I warned both classes that if they copied their paper from the Internet, I would know immediately and that they would receive a zerp. My exact words were, "I would rather you give me a paper with 100 mistakes, but you wrote it, than a perfect paper that was copied. Believe me. I will know."
I had previously avoided giving out-of-class assignments precisely for this reason, but I had given them several in-class writing exercises so I knew they were capable of producing a simple essay....Or so I thought.
The first week that classes resumed, I sat at my desk and began reading. And what did I see? You guessed it. Blatant plagiarism staring me in the face, page after page. About half of the them had literally copied and pasted the Wikipedia page for their chosen subject. I am talking subheadings the same, and some of them didn't even remove the hyperlinks, so at least one word in each paragraph was underlined. I just sat there - completely flabbergasted, which quickly turned to anger. With each big red zero and the word "Re-write" that I scribbled on the title pages, the rage grew. I must have read the Wikipedia page for Nelson Mandela 8 times before I finally put my head on my desk so that I wouldn't have to look at the stack of papers next to me. Seriously, guys? You did exactly what I told you NOT to do.
To be fair, half of the students did compose an original piece of writing, and yes there were grammatical and structural errors, but that is to be expected. That is part of the learning process. What does anyone learn from copying and pasting? So then I had to figure out how to address this problem to the students. Maybe the assignment was too difficult. Maybe they are lazy. Maybe they think I'm stupid and I wouldn't notice.
After taking a step back from the situation, I started thinking about this incident and how it fits into the big picture. What does it say about the education system here that a student who is majoring in English can't write a 2-page paper in his final year of college? I have been teaching them how to write for 7 months. Have they learned nothing? What am I doing wrong?
The next day, the students began filing into the classroom. I decided to attack the issue head on. "So I started reading your papers and I see a lot of plagiarism." They stared back at me with a mixture of guilt and fear. "I'm not mad at you guys, I'm just disappointed. You need to tell me why you did this. Was the assignment too difficult?" They shook their heads "no."
"OK. So what is it?"
"Teacher, we don't have materials."
"Well that is not an excuse. I told you I would help you find resources, but only a couple of you made appointments with me to do that."
"You told us we needed to use sources."
"Yes, but you have to get information from the sources, not copy them."
"I was absent so I just heard about the assignment yesterday. I didn't have enough time."
"OK well that is your responsibility so I can't help you there. Next?"
After a slew of completely irrational excuses, someone said, "The professors tell us what to do but they don't tell us how to do it." And there it is. It's all about the product and not the process. They explained to me that they always copy their work and their teachers have never said anything. They think it's good because there are no mistakes.
I feel like the students understand that this is a flawed system, but they are so entrenched in it that they don't know how to function any other way.
 "Alright, so we'll go through the writing process step-by-step. I'll show you how to do research without copying," I told them. "Yes, that's what we need," they replied.
I left the class with a better understanding of why they did what they did. I'm not giving them a free pass, but I now realize that it's not entirely their fault. We better get to work.

Angolan Road Trip - Part 3

Between the loss of my student and the attacks on American embassies, last week was pretty rough. I could feel the negativity of all these events, in which I have no control, washing over me. Luckily, I had been planning a weekend getaway with some friends, so it was the perfect time to escape the dirty, crowded, smelly streets of Luanda. We headed east toward the provinces of Malange and Kwanza Norte, where the scenery is breathtaking, the people are friendly, and the remnants of war are everywhere.

Kalandula Falls 

The second highest waterfall in Africa. The 1st is Victoria Falls on the Zambia/Zimbabwe border, where I once bungee jumped. I know you were wondering.

Don't tell my dad I was so close to the edge

Pedras Negras 

 Pedras Negras (black rocks), which are not black at all so I don't know where that came from, are impressive rock formations located in Malange Province. The rocks are a geological mystery since they are completely out of character from the surrounding landscape.

My guidebook says, "Many of the rocks have been described as looking like animals but at least one looks like an enormous circumcised phallus." I don't see it.

 Kwanza Norte

From Malange, we headed over to Cangandala National Park. I use the term park very loosely here. There is no infrastructure whatsoever - information, guides, tours, or lodging. Angola was once home to all the African game animals like lions, giraffes, elephants, etc. Unfortunately, they were all killed and eaten during the civil war. There are now some efforts to re-introduce certain species to Angola. However, this park apparently is home to the palanca negra, which is a large antelope and the national animal. Angola is the only country in the world that is home to this elusive animal.

On the way to the park, we drove past an abandoned Soviet tank and trees painted with red and white lines - a warning sign that landmines may be in the area. This was a stark reminder of the war and the devastating effect it continues to have. Angola is the most heavily mined country in Africa, possibly the world. No one knows exactly how many mines were laid since all sides, including foreign actors, used this strategy and did not map them. 

The red and white tape indicates the possible presence of mines

 This abandoned building on the bank of the Kwanza River is littered with bullet holes and painted with red and white stripes (on left).

"Don't leave your trash on the ground"

De-mined

The beach along the Kwanza River looked so enticing from a distance that we decided to drive down there and get a closer look.  What we found was a disturbing scene in which a naturally gorgeous landscape had been tragically destroyed. Come on, Angolans!



On a positive note, it was a great trip and a much needed retreat. Every once in a while, it's important to get out of Luanda to remind yourself that this is indeed a beautiful country. Sad, but beautiful.

the camping crew with a palanca negra (not a real one)

Comic Relief

I was sitting with a group of high school students the other day, flipping through a very cool science encyclopedia, when I was faced with a condundrum. These kids had been selected to participate in a video conference at the embassy with an American biologist, so I was helping them write questions for her. One group stopped on the dinosaur page, fascinated by the realistic pictures of the massive creatures. A young girl looked up at me and asked, "Teacher, where do the dinosaurs live?" Oh boy, I thought. I guess I have to be the bearer of bad news. 

"I hate to tell you this, but all the dinosaurs are dead."

"Oh." She replied, lowering her head disappointingly as she looked back down at the brontosaurus. 

It Doesn't Have to Be Like This

While I was sitting in the book group circle, chatting and sipping on a glass of red wine, my phone rang. It was a number I didn't recognize so I thought I should answer it. I excused myself and stepped out into the hallway.
"Hello teacher, this is Arinaldo."
"Hi, Arinaldo. How are you?"
"Not so good, teacher. I am calling to tell you that we can't come to class tomorrow. We lost one of our classmates."
"What? Who?"
"Augusto."
"How? What happened?"
"He was so bad, teacher. "
"He was sick?"
"Yes."
My mind was going a mile a minute. What do I say? What do I do? Arinaldo told me about the plans for the funeral and we planned to meet the following day at the university. As I hung up the phone and looked back at the circle of women, I decided to hold it together and just get through the rest of the evening. I couldn't even picture his face in my mind. With over 100 students, I don't know all of their names, especially when they are not standing in front of me. That bothered me. I should know their names.
I faked my way through casual conversations and finally it was time to go. My friend Laura and I drove together, so as we got in the car, I took a deep breath and said, "One of my students died." As soon as the words came out, I broke down. A flood of emotion washed over me as I thought about his family and the fact that he was so young - a first year student, so probably 18 or 19. At the same time, I became overwhelemed with the bigger picture. Young people die here all the time, and it's unnecessary. People here have to deal with this grief far too often. Every once in a while, the suffering slaps you in the face - maybe you see a hearse with a tiny casket in the back, or you see a large crowd outside a cemetery, or an acquaintaince tells you a tragic story. But those moments are fleeting. This one was not. All of it hit me at once on that car ride home and the tears would not stop streaming down my face. This time the loss was personal.
The next morning, as I rode to school, I suddenly reaslized that I would have to face his classmates that afternoon. I'm the leader of the class, I should provide support, but how can I do that when I am an emotional wreck myself? I just kept thinking over and over, "I was not prepared for this." Never in a million years did I think that I would have to sit down with my students and tell them that their classmate is dead, and that I would have to be someone who helps them cope. I wouldn't have the slighest idea how to handle this in the US, let alone in another country with a completely different culture.
As I walked to the classroom, I still didn't have a clear plan in my head. I was greeted by a group of male students who were standing in a circle. They were there to give the news to those who didn't know and collect money for the family, which is customary. They were also giving directions to his house so that those who wanted to could pay their respects. I was amazed by their poise in the face of such tragedy. They were sad yet practical. Unfortunately, these kids know all too well how to handle such situations.
Those students who wanted to stay and talk, did. We sat in a circle and they explained their traditions when a person dies and we discussed why so many young people die in Angola. One student said, "We are not living here, we are surviving." Another chimed in, "This is a rich country. It doesn't have to be this way."

I apprehensively entered the funeral, which was a patch of dirt surrounded by houses of crumbling concrete. I struggled to keep my balance as my heels dug into the sand and rocks. The singing is what his me first. A ring of women surrounded the casket, swaying back and forth, melodically repeating the verses of their hymns. I made my way through the crowd toward the closed casket. As soon as I saw the photo, I knew exactly who he was and and could picture where he always sat in the classroom. A tall, skinny kid with a noticeable gap in his two front teeth. I saw it often since he was almost always smiling. I could now see his face vividly in my mind, which for a split second, made me happy, and then terribly sad. His mother, who bares shocking resemblance to him, looked far too young to have a 21-year-old son. She sat next to the casket, gripping one of his shirts and sobbing. I knelt down and kissed both of her cheeks, but didn't know what to say. She wouldn't have heard me over the singing anyway. I looked over at his classmates as they cried and consoled each other.
Eventually, it was time for the burial. Augusto was not only a student, but also a teacher at a high school. His students lifted the casket and carried it to the street. His family and friends followed, some crying so hard, they could barely walk. The singing resumed and we all jumped in our cars and taxis to begin the journey to the cemetery. There the sounds of sadness grew even more intense. As his loved ones watched his body enter the ground, the collective wailing was almost too much to bear. I watched from a close distance as two men carried a seemingly lifeless woman out of the crowd and laid her down under a tree. Just as they were trying to revive here by splashing water on her face, another body emerged and joined her in the shade. Their minds so overwhelmed with grief that their bodies simply shut down.
Finally, everyone was out of tears and it was time to go. As I walked away from Augusto's burial site, past the unmarked mounds of orange dirt, two girls in my class rushed to catch up to me. They came up on either side of me, not saying a word, and each took one of my arms and linked it with theirs. And so we left the cemetery, arm in arm, silently wondering.....why does it have to be like this?

Return to Normalcy

No more parties, predictions, or anxiety. Election season is officially over. With over 70% of the vote, the ruling MPLA enjoyed an expected landslide victory. Voting day was remarkably uneventful and Luanda was eerily tranquil. The ubiquitous blue and white condugeiros (shared taxi vans) were nowhere to be seen on this national holiday as Angolans walked calmly to their neighborhood polling stations. There were no reports of violence or political protests, not even when the unofficial results were announced over the weekend. As the last of the campaign flags and banners wither away, things are getting back to normal around here. I'm happily back in my office, which I was kicked out of last week becaus the building was a polling site. I should have known something was up when they shut off the power in the room. A few hours later, a man from the dean's office informed me that I had to be "out in 5 minutes." Ok, so it takes a month to get a new box of chalk, but now you need me out in 5 minutes? Sure.
Classes resume next week, and I can't wait. This past month has not been easy. Teaching gives me a sense of purpose. When I am in the classroom, I am in control and I forget about the every day stresses and confusion here. I know what's going on and I can plan for the next day and the day after that. Everything else here is so unpredictable. I miss my students and the crazy things they say that make me laugh. Unfortunately, now the semester will be very short - only 3 months - so we have a lot of work to do.

Here is a story from BBC news about the election:
Angola: Promises Temper Election Victory

This is the new waterfront in Luanda, the marginal. I'm sure the grass and trees were imported as I have never seen either growing naturally anywhere else in the city. Coincidentally, this major construction project was finished and innaugurated by the president 3 days before the election. 

However....

most of the city still looks like this 

A Ray of Hope

Working with young students here is one of my favorite things to do. I am certain that I get more from them than they get from me, because they boost my morale and give me hope that this county won’t always suffer from poverty and corruption. I see a light in many of them that shines in spite of the challenges they face on a daily basis. The students that the embassy supports are taking English classes that are supplementary to their ordinary school day. They are choosing to improve their lives by learning a valuable skill that will give them more opportunities. The fact that they are showing up is a major accomplishment in itself, especially in a place where survival, not education, is the number one priority for many families. 

Over the summer, my colleague and good friend at the embassy organized weekly presentations for the English students at the American Corner. The American Corner is a library that is funded and run by the embassy and is used for youth programming. About 30 kids attended the first presentation, but by the last one, there were over 140! The topics included American food, music, volunteerism, and women’s empowerment. The presentations were given by various members of the embassy community so that the kids could meet a diverse group of Americans. It’s also a great way for the embassy staff to get out in the community and see something positive happening. All too often, we are bombarded by negativity here. Life is hard and many of the problems facing this country seem insurmountable. Once in a while, we all need a ray of hope to keep us going. These kids are exactly that.

A few weeks ago, the kids had an idea that they would do a presentation about Angolan culture for the embassy to return the favor for the knowledge they have gained about American culture. They wanted it to be a surprise so we had no idea what to expect. On Thursday morning, 8 of us from the embassy went out to the school, including the Deputy Chief of Mission (this is the position just under the Ambassador) and the Ambassador’s wife. What we experienced was nothing short of amazing.

We entered a large auditorium where the students had decorated a long table and displayed at least 12 different Angolan dishes. As we took our seats and the presenting students, about 30 of them, anxiouly made their last minute preparations, hundreds of students began shuffling in the room. What makes this even more incredible is that schools are closed right now due to elections. All of these kids came to this presentation during their vacation. The MC took the microphone and welcomed us. He flawlessly pronounced our names as he introduced the embassy staff to the growing crowd. After that, we stood for the national anthem, which was led by another student.

Two more students, dressed in traditional Angolan garb, told us about the history, politics, and geography of Angola. They even quizzed us on some of the information, asking, “People from the embassy, can you tell me who the first president of Angola was?”

The next topic was clothing. After showing a few slides of different types of outfits worn in various provinces, the presenter said, “Well I think it’s better to show you.” Music started pounding and the door on the side of the auditorium swung open. Fashion show! Never cracking a smile, the models fierecely walked the runway and showed off their intricate, handmade attire. They paid attention to every detail – the makeup, hair, and jewelry were all representative of the tribe or region in which the model was from.

 

The next two presenters explained the different types of Angolan music – semba, kizomba, and of course kuduro. They showed us pictures of some of the most famous artists. Each style of music also has a dance that goes with it. Again, the students thought it would be best to show rather than tell. Each dance group was dressed alike and had clearly spent many hours coreographing their numbers. One thing every Angolan can do is dance. They move their bodies in ways that I did not know was even possible. The movements come so naturally and the dancers exude a joy that is not often seen here. 

The dancers managed to drag the Ambassador’s wife up to participate and then motioned for several others in my group to get up so that they could learn kuduro. I had never been more releived that they didn’t call me up. For a white girl with very little rhythm, standing in front of 400 people and being forced to dance, is pretty high up on the embarrassment scale. 

I cannot express how relieved I was that they chose her and not  me. 

The students finished the presentation by describing the dishes they had made – fish, funje, beans, greens, caterpillars. Yup, caterpillars. I wasn’t feeling patricularly adventurous that day so I passed, but apparently they are a delicacy. The amount of work they must have put in to preparing the meal almost brought me to tears. 

You want me to eat what?

The most touching part of the experience for me was just how proud they are of their culture and their histroy, however painful it may be. As I sat in that auditorium, I thought, “If these kids in front me are the future of this country, then things are looking up.”