Weekend II of the Girls Exchange was another success story! My neighbor Nha (a.k.a., water girl) stopped by early last Friday afternoon to tell me the preparations she had taken for the upcoming weekend jaunt to Praia. She had been in Tarrafal, the nearby beach resort town, all day shopping for new pants and shoes to show off to her urban counterparts. She said she had gone with two other girls from the valley that were also looking for new clothes. This was interesting to me because the weekend before, the rural girls had been wearing their typical clothes consisting of a pleated skirt, tank top, bandana, and flip-flops, when the urban girls arrived in jeans, t-shirts, no bandanas to cover their hair, and nice tennis shoes. There had been such a contrast of fashion and culture that the rural girls had decided to attempt to fit in more during the second weekend by buying more ‘modern’ clothes for their urban retreat.

Nha had also come to tell me that everyone was going to meet at the community center at noon, not at the planned 1 p.m. departure time. I was a bit confused until she explained that everyone had seen each other at church last Easter Sunday in one of the villages, and they had decided it would be nice to present a theatre skit for the Praia girls when they arrived. I was in complete shock. Did I hear this right? The girls were taking their own initiative to become more self-confident and present a theatre skit for their counterparts in unfamiliar territory. I was speechless, and even more so when I arrived at noon to find eight bright-eyed girls in tight, spandex pants, black, skimpy sandals and raw hair, waiting to make some drama. As I sat back and watched them converse, they threw around Kriolu words like camisinha (condom), SIDA (AIDS), and gravidez precoz (teen pregnancy) -- words I had just heard for the first time in the valley the weekend before when the Praia girls performed their skit. Like babies speaking their first words, I couldn’t have been more ecstatic that they were learning, if not mimicking, the positive actions of their urban peers. Could the first weekend have been any more beneficial?

We waited and waited, no hiace (i.e. minivan) in sight. I had contracted the same trustworthy driver to pick us up, and he was already 45 minutes late. The Praia girls would be waiting at the specified location on time, and I had no way of contacting them to tell them we would be late. When a small flatbed truck passed, I told everyone to grab their bags because we were going to take the more difficult route to Praia. The girls took the change in stride, but I was fuming that the driver could be so late when I had specifically reminded him twice the day before – 1 p.m. SHARP. When we were half an hour outside the valley, I saw him approaching. Apparently, he had suffered a flat tire, and had called our flat bed truck driver, a cousin of his, to pick us up. We were in fact riding in another one of his family’s many vehicles. Fifteen minutes later, with many apologies, we started on our way in his minivan.

Despite the setback, we still arrived in Praia at 3 p.m., as planned. However, only two of the urban girls were there waiting. Many still had afternoon classes at the high school, and it would take another hour for them to come by. The rural girls were suddenly timid and introverted again, staring blankly at their sandals, waiting for their hosts to arrive. When everyone was finally gathered, I went over the Friday night dinner plan with Meg at my side. Dragoeiro, 7 p.m. SHARP. You can expect Cape Verdeans to be on average 20 minutes late to an event, but generally not an hour. Meg and I had been in such a rush to do things after we parted on Friday, that we anticipated arriving late at the bar-b-que restaurant, Dragoeiro. We hopped in a taxi, and were there right on the dot. Within the next fifty minutes, eight predominately empty buses passed – the bus I had advised the girls to take. Meg and I began to worry – maybe they had thought said a different restaurant. Maybe there were two of the same restaurant. I asked the owner -- "No, just one, Senhora." When the finally arrived, the exclaimed that all of the buses had been full and nobody let a large group get on. Briefly, I wondered why they hadn’t had more common sense to go as pairs or smaller groups on the buses in order to arrive more on time.

At Dragoeiro, everyone quickly ordered the same thing when asked, fried chicken, french fries, and a canned fruit drink. I had budgeted for around $5.US each, and they had spent exactly that, even though I had expected many of them to spend less on the most popular dish, pork shish kabobs. Quietly, Meg and I discussed how the Praia girls had probably told them to order the most expensive dish and drink on the menu since we were paying. After dinner, I suggested we all walk over to a nearby ice cream parlor for dessert because they had been given around $10.US each to spend on food and transport throughout the weekend, 80% of which was allotted for snacks or gifts to take home. The Praia girls complained that they might not catch a bus home at 9 p.m. and need to take a taxi. I kept reminding them that this was the cheapest ice cream parlor in town and more buses would come. They finally gave in with the rural girls jumping in delight. At the parlor, smiles were frequent and tongues dabbled in the most delicious frozen confections.

On the way to the bus stop, I was busy licking my ice cream and talking to Meg when I fell into a water drainage ditch, busting open my toe and bruising my legs. One girl remarked, "When we fall, we get up fast, but you just laid there Elektra." I couldn’t help but laugh at how indicative that was of how they wanted others to view them. Later that night, Meg and I watched a taped version of the Oscars, and were dazzled with stories of lights and television the next day by the rural girls describing their nocturnal adventures with their hosts. That’s right, think back to the first time you experienced electricity, and then imagine being a teenager.

Saturday was a delight of a day. Although I had asked the urban girls to take their rural guests to their early morning classes, none had followed my suggestion. I had later repented that I had not insisted they take them when the rural girls slowly arrived at the high school after class, asking for a tour of the school in their bashful voices. This was what I saw as the one opportunity for the rural girls who only attended primary school to experience a real high school class setting. Instead of giving a thorough tour of the inside of the school, the urban girls merely walked us around the perimeter, flashes of a Brooklyn-disadvantaged-youth-movie in my mind. All of the students, predominantly boys in uniforms (required by public schools), were prancing around with their basketballs, graffiti lining the dilapidated concrete walls. Meg even recalls me moaning as I admired a few of the sculpted bodies, six packs and all, stretching on the perimeter of the court. One thing anybody will notice when coming to Africa is the muscle tone that men, women, and children share. There is so much daily physical labor that children as young as four can have noticeable biceps or abdominal muscles. Cape Verdeans often marvel at how overweight some volunteers can be despite living amongst people that are so fit. Unfortunately, volunteers can afford most of the sweets they only long for.

After the school tour, we started on a walking tour of the commercial area of the city encompassing a few city blocks. I was struck by the contrast of the rural girls all dressed up in ‘modern’ teenage clothes passing by rural women sitting on stools on the street selling fruit to passersby. I can only imagine what they must have been thinking to get a possible future glimpse of themselves in the same city as rural women attempting to make a living. At the largest supermarket in the country, small for American standards, the girls ogled the products on each shelf, packaged cereals, cartons of imported juice, feminine products, food for pets (note: there are no such things as pets in rural areas, only the capital city where people have disposable income to treat an animal like family). They filled their baskets with items their mothers had given them money to buy, such as clothes detergent (large bar of soap), cookies, crackers, and cartons of cheap wine.

After the supermarket, we discreetly headed towards Verdefam, a family planning center that none of the rural girls knew we were going to visit. I had strategically planned this visit after discovering the previous weekend that none of the girls understood menstruation, the dangers of unprotected sex, or how to use contraception. Their mothers had told them that periods were given by God, and instructed to stay away from boys. With only a primary school, Catholic (i.e. conservative) education, many of them had never seen a picture of the female uterus or been told how it functions. Our wonderful hostess at the center left them laughing and nervous as she prompted them with questions like: What do you call a penis in your valley? What is it called when a man sleeps with a woman? What do you know about sex? They were so shy, leaning over their knees, covering their faces as they giggled at the large, rubber African penis bouncing in her hand. She later rolled a condom down the rubber penis, and spouted off facts about AIDS, STDs, and other sex issues. I played the clueless audience member who wanted to know things, filling in where I thought she was missing important information: If I touch sperm once it is outside the body, can I still get pregnant? How does the pill really prevent pregnancy? How long can I leave the condom on after my boyfriend ejaculates? What happens if I forget to take the pill for 3 days? How much do the pills or condoms cost at my local clinic?

She then popped in a Portuguese video, but I noticed the girls were not really paying attention because most only understand Kriolu, especially at their education level. I pulled her aside and asked her to explain to them in Kriolu the intricacies of the pill, condoms, and sex again. She marveled me in her ability to talk frankly to girls and get them to open up. By the end of the hour, every girl had rolled a condom down the rubber penis, even though many struggled because it was so large and the condom so small. I could not help but laugh. The hostess kept telling the girls that if they were too shy to say the word "camisinha" (CAH-ME-SEEN-YA) with another woman, then how would they tell their boyfriend to put one on when the time came. She urged the girls to come back, and we reinforced that there is another clinic nearby the valley where they can get the pill or condoms for free along with any information.

As we ate lunch afterwards at the local clothing market, I wondered how they must have felt. Was it like the first time I had a gynecological exam and felt relieved to be out of the office with my clothes back on? Meg and I left them shopping with their urban hosts, and reminded them not to let the rural girls get lost in the myriad of stalls selling the same imported pants, tops, and shoes from Brazil. Once on their own, they eventually headed back to their home stays, taking naps, eating dinner, and having their hair done by their hosts. When they finally arrived 30 minutes late for the 6:30 p.m. showing of Behind Enemy Lines, they were looking even trendier than I could have expected with new skirts, jean jackets, makeup, fancy braids, and hair accessories.

Inside the theatre, their worlds quickly transformed into a military pursuit of cat and mouse. I glanced back at their faces on occasion, imagining their fear or amazement at the sound effects and technology. What did they think of the fancy air craft carrier, US soldiers in uniform, winter in Eastern Europe, the satellite dish zooming in on the protagonist running in the forest, the mass graves, the military weapons, the sleek helicopters, the rolling hills of what was supposed to be Yugoslavia a few years ago. After the movie, everyone departed quickly for a planned soccer game, and Meg and I slipped back to the Peace Corps Transit House.

Sunday morning, all of the girls slowly filtered into the living room at the Transit House shortly after 8:30 a.m. The Praia girls brought us all Red Cross t-shirts as gifts and also gave them homemade cakes or treats to take home. In Cape Verde, it is typical when someone visits to give them a parting gift. I have made it a habit to never return a dish empty, as my neighbor taught me in San Francisco. When the urban girls left the valley the weekend before, you may remember that they had bags full of sweet potatoes, squash, green beans, sugar cane, and even one live chicken. Meg pointed out that they weren’t working as cohesively when they talked for 45 minutes about their upcoming theatre performance on April 14th with no conclusion. This is when the rural girls mentioned how they had put together a small skit for the Praia girls, but had never gotten the chance to perform it. The Praia girls reprimanded them for not mentioning it earlier, which I didn’t do because I thought the initiative should come from them. They eventually decided to present two skits, one prepared by the rural girls ahead of time and another created by the urban girls for the entire group.

We held our closing activity, which I videotaped, of each girl saying what they had enjoyed and/or learned while in Praia or the river valley. Comments ranged from I learned how to put on a condom to It was my first time eating ice cream or bar-b-que chicken and The movie was so scary! Meg mentioned how the rural girls had physically transformed themselves over the period of one week, and I encouraged them use this newfound knowledge to become more empowered. Perhaps it was only me with tears in my eyes, although many hugs were exchanged before the hiace departed. In the minivan, the radio boomed typical Cape Verdean rock songs, and the rural girls beamed with confidence as they sang along in unison. Perhaps it was only me that noticed their emphasis of words such as confiança (confidence), força (strength), and sigui nós (follow us), but, for a few moments, time seemed to stop and everything I had worked for came to fruition. On this particular afternoon, the sky was the clearest it has ever been, and off in the distance you could even see the glistening white sand beaches of the neighboring island Maio.

As the hiace arrived at my group of houses, the girls in the back of the minivan shouted, "Elektra don’t get out!", as if not wanting the experience to end. I reminded them that they needed to practice their skit this Saturday before the Sunday performance, and we set a time. Nha pulled her bags out of the car, and turned to glance out over the valley for a few minutes in silence before turning back to me. She slipped off her Red Cross t-shirt, and gently placed a bag of groceries on her head, the metamorphosis complete. "N ka kre bai a kasa (I don’t want to go home)," she whispered, as she set out with me across the riverbed to our houses, the silhouettes of our neighbors waiting under the acacia tree in her front yard. Neither do I, I thought, neither do I.