Behind the times

My bros just left Cape Verde for America after their whirlwind vacation, which was incredible and which I appreciated more than they’ll ever know. Not seeing family for ten months is difficult. But anyway, silly American miniscule vacations… Our European friends shake their heads in pity, appreciating the +/-1 month they get each year.

I was on http://www.peacecorpswiki.org recently which got me thinking about things we miss or that leave us behind. Serving in Cape Verde, is not, as my brothers found, like disappearing into the deserts of Niger or the forests of one of the former Soviet “Stans,” but it’s different than the States.

A universal loss is our grasp of the English language. In CV volunteers interact more often than at other posts, and many Cape Verdeans speak English, but still words escape us. I’m extremely glad I took the GRE already. When I came, my English was very good and I spoke decent Spanish. Now I speak simple Kriolu, broken Portuguese, no Spanish, and ever deteriorating English.

When the bros arrived I put on a mix of popular discoteca music in São Filipe. Cape Verdean funana, zouk, and rap mingle with Banda Calipso from Brazil; reggae from Bob Marley and Lucky Dube; and what we believed to be the latest Akon and other hip-hop stars.

“Have you heard this song, “Forever,” by Chris Brown? It just hit Cape Verde.”

“Uh actually that’s about eight months old. Haven’t you heard about how he beat up Rihanna?”

It seems the “latest” Akon is about six months old, and probably played out in the US. We still enthusiastically dance to it in the discos, not least because for once we understand the words. The tables are turned on our Cape Verdean partners.

Another phenomenon is Twitter. All these headlines we’ve seen during our precious internet time about what Oprah wrote or that Senator Whoever Twittered during some speech. What does it mean? Why is it so popular? And after having it explained multiple times by an IT volunteer and my bros: Why does anyone waste their time with this crap?

I excitedly pointed out the large canister of cinnamon I found in a shop in Mosteiros, or the abundance of meats in Praia supermarkets, to Chris’ rolled eyes. Buying spices in bulk, as opposed to in overpriced packets containing several tablespoons at best, isn’t tantalizing? It’s bad enough experiencing culture shock going from Fogo to Santiago. What’ll it be like going to Meijer or Kroger in the US for the first time?

I remember the first supermarket I entered after a month in Ghana. It was in Onekama in northern Michigan, on the shores of Portage Lake and across the street from the once glorious but apparently now shuttered Tuttens bar. Mary, Shanka, Ammar, Fairgrieve, Hobey, and Jamie (Sorry if I’ve omitted someone) practically had to drag me from the “vast” (the Onekama IGA is not Super Wal-Mart) selection of meats, breads, canned goods. Of course, no one sold skewers of grasscutter, ie overgrown rodent, or guinea fowl, by the road, to every American’s detriment.

I’ve been in Cape Verde ten months, and it’s amazing how much we’ve missed. What’ll it be like in fall 2010 when I return? For me at least, it’s more humorous than devastating. It’s the time not spent with family and friends that hurts. But I know when I step into the terminal at Lansing’s Capital City Airport after this adventure, while I will still be unfashionable, behind the times on music and IT, and shocked by the selection at the airport café, my family will be there and we’ll pick up like we’d only been apart a matter of minutes, not years.

Heyoooo

I’ve been extremely remiss. Occasionally I write snippets or paragraphs, so I’ll string a few of them together.

It was my buddy’s birthday recently, so naturally I baked a cake. I left it in the oven overnight due to a full refrigerator and to protect it from flies. In any case, when I pulled it out the next day to frost, I found it swarming with ants.

Okay, so in the US this is obvious: throw the cake away and bake a new one. Here, not so clear. You can’t waste a whole freaking cake. That’s absurd. I didn’t have more flour and there was no place open to buy more. I didn’t have time to bake another.

I thought back to times I’d eaten cookies with ants on them or consumed juice hosting an ant pool party. Insects are great protein sources too! I blew off as many of the ants as I could, and put the cake in the freezer for awhile to kill the rest of the little moochers. Then a nice layer of white frosting covered any evidence.

To seal the deal, we ate it outside by candlelight with no chance of spotting corpses. And I’m happy to say, no one got sick and everyone said it was good. Yes!

I was thinking about ways in which I’ve changed here in outlook or mentality. Definitely patience grows living in a developing country.

The importance of family is greater than the US. In the States, the bond within immediate family members is strong, but here it extends farther. “Family” encompasses more people, 2nd, 3rd cousins. The definitions are different. There are no half siblings. Men having children with multiple women is common, and all are considered full brothers and sisters. Family trees are…interesting.

We live on the bottom apartment of a two story. The other night the kids upstairs were particularly loud and annoying, and finally they got what was coming to them. Instead of being horrified as we might have been in the US, we smiled at one another knowingly, acknowledging that it was about time.

Okay here we go Beau: Living more intimately with animals makes me less against hunting. Coming from Michigan and knowing plenty of hunters, I never had a problem with it. It’s the guns that bother me (An AK47 or a semi-auto Glock for hunting? To protect yourself from the queen of England? If as an American you have the right to bear arms, why not bear a 1700s black powder rifle or pistol like our forefathers? Who needs an M-16?). But anyway, I never cared to hunt because I didn’t think I could kill an animal. After living here, seeing animals killed, killing a few, I might just give it a go in the States. If you’re going to eat meat, you might as well be willing to kill it yourself.

I just found out I’m returning during the summer to the village from which I moved. I’m incredibly excited to go back to the strange little place I learned to love, though it could explode at any time! Just kidding, eruptions are announced by tremors giving enough time to escape.

The other night I went to a discoteca with some PCVs. Two female colleagues and I left early as the club was empty and it was getting late. Sitting on my front step, we heard crying from the nearby park. Then a cartoonishly loud “smack,” so overdone and followed by a strange guttural noise we assumed a few kids were playing. Moments later a teenage girl ran out from the park, sat down against a wall, and sobbed, head in hands. One of the PCVs went to talk to her, to make sure she was all right. The perfect gentleman of a boyfriend stalked over, arguing with them. From the step we couldn’t hear everything, but we did catch, “When we get home I’m going to beat you. It’s my right.” After more negotiating, begging, imploring by the PCV, the guy grabbed the girl by the hand, pulled her to her feet. He dragging her, she resisting, but ultimately following, they went off into the night.

It was disgusting. I wish I had gone over and said something. As right as my fellow PCV was in her arguments against the girl leaving just to get beaten by the guy who’ll certainly not face repercussions, he wasn’t going to listen to her. Maybe he would’ve listened to another guy. Maybe he would’ve felt embarrassed for a fleeting moment. Maybe not. At least I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering “What if?”

I’ll try to follow up with a what-I-do-everyday blog before long. Thanks for your patience. By local standards, I’m right on time.

Nha aniversario/Meu aniversário/My birthday

My birthday was March 3rd, the big 2-3, putting me one year closer to renting a car in the US, senior discounts, and social security (just kidding, my generation won’t get that!).

I thought I’d lie low, not tell anyone who didn’t know, spend time with some PCVs. All PCVs knew because our newsletter announces birthdays. Also, I’m friends with a few people here on Facebook, who astutely noticed the impending anniversary.

I woke, made breakfast, went to work, the normal routine. I got home and my parents called, singing “Happy Birthday” according to family tradition. We talked until my Cape Verdean buddies came to practice English. After the lesson my grandparents called crooning “Happy Birthday” as well. Then we ran, I went home and showered, and went to dinner with some PCVs.

We had the best Chinese food on Fogo: grilled pork ribs and chicken, with fried rice. It’s too bad the multitude of Chinese people on the island don’t open an authentic restaurant. Nonetheless it was good and I’ll go again.

We stalled at the restaurant, watching Brazilian reality TV (“Wife Swap,” in Rio). Jonny fielded several phone calls, disappearing from time-to-time. I received well-wishes from the two awesome young women who lived in the same training village as me. We became intimate friends packed into the beds of pickup trucks shuttling our fellow villagers, livestock, and sacks of produce back and forth to Assomada, airing our concerns, frustrations, highs, lows, with uninhibited honesty. It approached 9:30, when I thought a few friends might stop by, so I was antsy to get back. No one else seemed hurried.

Finally we got to the house, Jonny searched his pockets, and said, “Oh I forgot my key,” so I opened the door. I looked left and thought I saw something strange on the futon but it was dark so I wasn’t sure.

I hit the light. “SURPRESA!!!” (surprise). On the table a huge, beautiful cake, and all of our close friends jammed into the diminutive living room: the Portuguese volunteer nurses, our German pals working in tourism and wine-making, our Luxemburger friend overhauling the water utility, my running partners/English students/friends, our Cape Verdean buddy (Joãozinho) who teaches Tae-Bo and has been a good friend to Peace Corps on Fogo for years, and a few others. I was astonished. They broke into “Happy Birthday” in Portuguese, then English, as I stood awed, like a deer in the headlights.

I shuffled towards the kitchen, dazed, to get extra plates and silverware, when my phone rang once again. Far too many digits appeared on the caller ID for a Cape Verdean number (no area codes here), and to my utter delight some of my best friends from the US, Shanka, Jamie, and Ammar called. Still floored from the surprise, it was nonetheless awesome to speak to them. More icing on the cake.

Every year there’s that nagging possibility in the back of my head, “If I open this door is there a surprise waiting?” But never did I expect it here, so far from home. It turns out the scheming Portuguese nurses who’ve become my good friends organized it. This mammoth effort, as their term ends and they return to Portugal the 5th, aided by Joãozinho and Jonny. I’m not an emotional person but I am, extremely touched, grateful, and lucky to be surrounded by such incredible people, even if I lack the words to express those feelings.

So despite the unremarkable, anticlimactic nature of the 23rd birthday, I count this as one of, if not the, best birthdays ever. A million miles from home, on a mysterious volcanic island rising from the unforgiving Atlantic, I continue to live a charmed and undeserved life. Thank you everyone. It means more than you know.

Differences, but not the song by Ginuwine…

It’s good to talk how people are alike and we’re a common humanity. I believe it too, though I only know five countries (plus Amsterdam’s airport. I’m told this doesn’t count. It was nice and I think I’ll like Europe immensely). It’s probably more interesting to you intrepid readers, who bravely slog through my awkward and infrequent posts, to hear about differences. I’ll say, in my day-to-day life, what’s different from the US and put approximate prices, to show how expensive it is. Things are often as pricey as the US, yet per capita GDP in CV is less than $1,500/year, and much less for average farmers. Fogo and Santo Antão are the poorest islands.

I wake at 6:45, faintly hearing roosters. Trucks rumble by filled with pilfered sand from the beaches or volcano. I get water from the filter, bleach it, and drink. I put CV coffee ($2.50/250g) in a pot and mix in 1.5 mugs of water. I light the gas stove with a Bic, singeing my hand. The oven is scarier. It’s a mini explosion. On another burner I fry an egg ($0.25). A common misconception is the need to refrigerate eggs. False. I’ve never refrigerated here, and I’ve only been to the hospital twice. Maybe I have parasites or amoebas but raw cookie dough is worth it. Fresh cow’s milk is not. No thank you. But it’s true, some doctor somewhere said eggs are fine at room temp. While coffee and egg cook, I peel a Fogo orange ($0.25), pale yellow, bruised, dirty, sour-ish, full of seeds. They don’t taste bad, and I like to support Fogo. Coffee boils a few minutes, and then I turn it off and let the grounds settle. I slowly pour into a mug, trying to keep the sludge in the pot.

After breakfast I walk to the office, passing women with big bowls balanced beautifully (alliteration!) on their heads, full of produce, fish, or clothes. Men idle near Hotel Xaguate with spear guns and other fishing implements. Kids going to morning session (to maximize existing infrastructure and teachers, school is ½ day) walk by, some in pressed school shirts, knockoff Diesel jeans, and Nike Air Force 1s, others in grubby t-shirts and holey flip-flops, or no footwear at all. Goats graze the ribeiras (valleys) or wander the streets, eating delicious delicious trash.

At the mint green office trimmed in black and white painted stones, I greet Cape Verdean, Portuguese, Brazilian, Guinean (Bissau), Cuban, and German colleagues in Kriolu and Portuguese. If power’s out, people cluster on the veranda smoking and chatting. Farmers fresh from the fields mingle with snappily dressed office workers. Extensionists zoom in and out of the parking lot on 1970s and 80s Honda dirt bikes, past 90s pickups and sparkling 2000s Toyota Prados (Land Cruisers).

In the office I sit with my boss and our colleague, competing for the Ethernet cable. Gmail offline is my savior. I bring toilet paper and hand sanitizer, in the likely situation the bathroom lacks both. To flush, turn on the water to fill the tank as it’s not automatic. I once had to scour the maid closet, finding a bucket of mop water to flush because the tank wouldn’t fill. In this water-poor country, if it’s yellow, let it mellow, if it’s brown etc. etc. I do lunch at 12ish, going home for leftovers and returning at 1ish. I drink “juice,” a catchall term encompassing real juice, Coke, Fanta, and what I have, Foster Clark’s, a glorified Kool Aid. At 3:30 I leave, passing people desiring a ride.

Hitchhiking is normal. If you own a car you help those less fortunate. There are also paid taxis and shared vans/pickups, which run more-or-less fixed routes but stop where you want within reason. There are a few buses, and 40 of us once waited 30 minutes while a rider got a haircut. Most people let you jump in their pickup bed for a lift. If you want to go somewhere, start walking and you’ll get a ride.

For shopping, it’s the commercial district or Super Rodrigo, the cheapest food store. It’s been dubbed, by PCVs, the Wal-Mart of CV. It’s a supermarket, home/building supply, and bulk food store. Supermarkets are stocked like decent 7-11s or gas stations. Sometimes prices are marked. The Shell gas station is open everyday, while everything else closes Sundays. For fresh produce or fish it’s the Mercado Municipal, with women vending what’s in season, from apples to beans to goat cheese. Tuna, serra (sawfish?), grouper, and others are available. Sushi-grade tuna costs $2.50/lb. Unlike other W. African countries, there’s little haggling. For household goods visit Chinese stores (lojas chinés), owned/run by Chinese people. They vend hilariously low-quality goods cheaply. There’s another open-air market, with knockoff and almost new clothes and electronics.

I read, nap, or listen to BBC until 5:30 when run with friends. We go to the port and back, maybe 4 miles? If a ship just arrived we go see, or go to the beach, climb the rocks, or check out the fishermen motoring their little skiffs in from the choppy seas between Fogo and Brava, one of the smallest islands, hulking ominously in the distance. You can also see the Dry Islands (Ilhas Secas), which are uninhabited but intriguing.

Back home, I drink milk with camoca (like ground burnt popcorn kernels that didn’t pop with sugar), relax, and start dinner. Usually I have rice and beans, like a good Cape Verdean. After, it’s reading, meeting friends at a bar, or if Friday the discoteca. Every so often I shower. We have running water, but we do it the submarine way, i.e. get wet, turn off the water, soap up, then rinse. It’s on less than a minute. I hit the sack before 11 and repeat in the morning.

On weekends (not every weekend) I wash clothes, bending over a basin of water with a washboard and a bar of laundry soap, the kind in the US you’re not supposed to touch. At first it makes the skin fall off your hands, but they learn. You can also wash your face with it. After wringing, I hang clothes on the roof, hoping the neighbor’s dog Kiko won’t tear them down and stink ‘em up like she did with my 2nd favorite pair of pants. The sun’s strong, drying clothes in 3-4 hours. I have trouble grasping how a “real” washing machine works now, considering I use about 3 gallons of water and no electricity. Clothes take a beating, but they’re cleaner than with a machine. It’s a good workout, but probably explains why many older women are hunchbacked.

I guess the last difference is total strangers are nice and invite you into their lives, especially in rural areas. I don’t think it’s because I’m white, either. It makes a big difference speaking Kriolu, not Portuguese, the language of colonization, oppression, and starvation (100,000+ Cape Verdeans died of hunger in the 1900s). More so in Chã, I felt like an accepted member of the families.

All right txau. Obrigadu.

Kuzas

I’m pretty much settled in São Felipe. Two Thursdays ago I got a boleia (free ride) with a friend to Chã das Caldeiras. I stayed on Lauren’s cot, which is built to comfortably sleep people under 5’6”. I’m not one of them. You kind of have to curl up in Chã at night right now anyway since it’s cold. When I bought a 45 degree sleeping bag before leaving, I thought, “Ha, 45 degrees I’m going to Africa this is overkill. I’m getting screwed!” Incorrect.

We made the rounds, saying hi to everyone. We spent time at Ramiro’s, but that goes without saying. Everyone was nice but it was hard to go just to leave. I need to quit Chã cold turkey. I’m losing my cat eyes too; walking in the dark without a light was somewhat difficult.

We left Saturday, so Friday night Lauren and I had dinner with a visiting Peace Corps boss and a mutual friend. The mother of my favorite village girls works at the restaurant. Friday those three, their son/brother, and another restaurant worker watched Home Alone on a portable DVD player in the kitchen where there are outlets connected to the generator. I had a good time explaining, as it was in English with Chinese subtitles, inexplicably.

Odja kel jelo na txon. E sima nha zona na merka. (Look at that snow on the ground. It’s like in my zone in America). E verdad? (Is it real?). Sim, e verdad. (Yeah, it’s real). Es sta na Paris. Es skesi ses fidju. (They’re in Paris. They forgot their son).

The next morning as we got in the pickup, the mother ordered a daughter back to the house, and moments later she returned breathlessly with a sack of potatoes and apples for me. Just another reason why I love it there. It’s not the free food, but it’s that they need it much more than me but wouldn’t think twice about sharing.

I finally got the rest of my stuff from Chã, including my clothes hanger thing, oven with gas tank, mattress, bed frame, and shelf unit. I never managed to get a park car, so we loaded the winery pickup with some stuff and put the bed in a work truck full of bottled wine for sale. The driver, Adriano, took it straight to the house in São Felipe, while we went to Ponte Verde and Curral Grande. Then I went to São Felipe with the stuff and finally put together my room.

It’s worth mentioning that the Chã winery will export wines to the US for the first time, in the Boston/Brockton area. Every year production rises, so winos be on the lookout. They produce white, red, rosé, passito, grappa, grogue from quince or grapes, and several liquors, like pomegranate and one infused with local herbs (digestivo).

A few weeks ago a neighbor girl in Chã was wearing a midriff-length shirt. She raised her arms and Lauren and I saw a bright white streak across her belly. “Psst, ben li. E kuze?” (Hey, come over here. What’s that?) She had a nasty burn from hot jam, football-shaped, maybe 2in X 1in. The white stuff was toothpaste. I ran and got my PC med kit and we instructed her how to properly care for it and gave her triple antibiotic and bandages.

I feel the office slowly crushing my soul, to exaggerate slightly. It’s tough to maintain Kriolu sitting at the computer all day. One benefit of living in São Felipe is I’m learning Portuguese. I’d never speak it to the average João, but it’s imperative when working with international consultants, who of course don’t know Kriolu. It’s useful in a lot of places too, like Brazil, Moçambique, Guiné-Bissau, and Angola. It’s the 7th most spoken language in the world…

This Saturday Jonny and I got together with friends at one of their houses for lunch which ended up lasting ‘til eleven. The guy with the house is a Luxemburger working for the water company on Fogo. Two of his colleagues, another Luxemburger and a Columbian came. Then there was a gaggle of Portuguese, three nurses and three dentists. Two Cape Verdeans came. One German working to develop the wine industry made it. And finally three Turkish rock climbers showed. It’s a really nice group. I like everyone and getting to practice Portuguese. I don’t feel comfortable speaking it to Cape Verdeans, being the language of colonization and oppression.

Sometimes I feel so far from what I imagined before leaving the US. One of my first projects will be a website, far from community development for which I volunteered. If I can make an impact on people’s lives here, that’s good, but still I feel, so, I don’t know…

Thanks for reading. Nhos fika kampion (You all stay awesome)

Cape Verdean hospitality and parties

I’m in São Felipe now, working in the Parque Natural do Fogo office. I’m planning a project to help women entrepreneurs in Chã das Caldeiras improve their jam and preserves business. Hopefully I can help create labels and find more places to sell products, as well as teach basic business practices like accounting, all with the goal that they’ll take over every aspect of the project making it sustainable.

Cape Verdeans are incredibly generous people. There’s never not enough food, drink, room in a car, etc. The other day one of the PCVs was in town with a 10 year old boy, Antonio, from her village. They wanted some food, and though I’d already eaten and wasn’t hungry, decided to accompany them. Antonio ordered rice and beans with pork, and guava juice (which is awesome, why can’t we get it in the US?).

He repeatedly asked why I didn’t order. Wasn’t I hungry? No, I said, I’ve already eaten. When the food came he insisted I eat some of the rice and beans. There was no other option. I also had to drink some of his juice. It was around 2 or 3 pm by now, he probably hadn’t eaten all day, and was quite hungry. But you cannot eat in the presence of someone who’s not eating. It’s unthinkable, even to a boy of 10. If you have something today you share it, even if you won’t have anything tomorrow. Someone tomorrow will take care of you.

I love going to parties in the fora, which I guess is the “bush” of Cape Verde, where there’ll be half as many plates as people or three cups for twenty people, but it always works. You can share a plate or pass the cup. Someone will wash the dishes. It’d probably give a public health worker a nightmare, but it feels nice. I love the communal attitude. Interestingly enough, I’ve had few colds and minor maladies you’d expect from sharing food and utensils.

Recently I went to a party in the fora with another PCV. We waited with a Cape Verdean friend for what seemed like forever for our ride, a Dyna (we have several modes of transport, all Toyotas: Hillux, a pickup, Hiace, a van, and Dyna, a big pickup-style work truck). We picked up a group of our European friends (from Germany, Italy, Portugal, and Luxemburg), and hit the road. We headed up the main road towards Salto, where it splits right to Cova Figueira or continues straight to Chã das Caldeiras. Before Salto we turned onto a dirt road which was rough, and at one point all the men had to get out and walk so the Dyna would make it.

We finally got to the party, which turned out to be an old house emptied of its contents, replaced by a DJ booth and speakers throughout the two room dwelling. They had a bar as well. There was a high cover charge for men (500$ CVE, or $6 USD), so we debated amongst the corn stalks whether to go in or not. It was cold and we’d come far, and we didn’t have a way to get back besides walking, so we sucked it up and paid. It turned out to be fun, and we danced all night.

Around dawn one of the German guys and I noticed the rest of our group had disappeared. We got a little frantic, thinking we’d missed our ride. Someone mercifully helped the two confused white dudes, showing us that our friends were behind the house getting breakfast. The house had a detached kitchen (this is good when you cook with wood), and old women were laboring in the chokingly smoky hovel, over giant cast iron pots of coarsely ground corn, xarem. One of the women, perhaps the lady of the house, apologized profusely it was only corn and there was no meat. I assured her the food was good and we didn’t need anything more. Such incredible hospitality. After breakfast we huddled into the back of a pickup and hit the chilly road to São Felipe, to collapse into bed and catch a few hours of sleep.

N sta xatiadu

So I moved to São Felipe Tuesday. You could say I’m bummed. Bummed isn’t strong enough a word but yeah. I’ll refer to São Felipe as Bila, from now on though. That’s what people from the fora (country, sticks, etc.) call São Felipe. My heart’s in the fora, so it’s Bila to me. Bila comes from the Portuguese villa, which evidently is what they called their biggest cities on the islands. Many people in Bila pity me that I had to live in Chã das Caldeiras. But no, I tell them, “Txan e mas sabi” (Chã das Caldeiras is way better than Bila).

Sure Bila has perks, like electricity, running water, free internet in the plaza, places you can buy food, etc. But if you know me, and how crazy I am, these things don’t make me happy. They make me wonder where I am and what I’m doing there. Every hour, every day. I never had doubts about joining, everyone agreed it was a perfect fit for me (minus my Mom, obviously. “Why not AmeriCorps or Teach for America?”), but now…

The night before I left Lauren and I went to Ramiro’s, the only place to hang out after dark in Chã. Some of the guides and the new president of the association, our friends, were there. When they learned I would leave the next day, they organized an impromptu despidida (going away party), buying bottle after bottle of manecom and tons of spaghetti with spam and chorizo for Ramiro’s wife and daughters to prepare. Everyone got a good meal (not always a regular occurrence at their homes) and had a good time (inevitably). I couldn’t express my gratitude properly in Kriolu, other to say that I feel like the people of Chã are my family. I think they understood. I don’t expect such a feeling in Bila.

The next day a truck came and picked up half of my stuff. We had to leave my bed, oven, propane tank, shelf unit, etc. At least I get to go back to Chã to get the rest. My neighbors and landlady are sad, the latter saying she felt safe with me there, her room being attached to my two (bedroom and another for everything else). Riding in the back of the truck with my stuff was surreal, everyone I forgot or didn’t get a chance to tell realizing as we passed with a full load that I was leaving. I hope they’ll understand it wasn’t my choice. I hope they won’t think I gave up on Chã. I didn’t.