Sunday, September 10, 2006
Today was my first full day as a Peace Corps Volunteer. It started early and after a brief farewell to other volunteers I found myself on a 20-minute plane ride to the island of Fogo. The view from the sky was dramatic – the peak of the island’s infamous volcano stood boldly to the right side of the island, surrounded by water and nestled into an array of clouds. Its peak rose sternly above its white companions and I found myself wondering if I may learn something from its lush and showy climate.
The people, much like the island, demand your attention and contain richness within. Their beauty and diversity seem connected to where they live and I hope this affects me during the next two years. Our zona (zone), Ponta Verde, lives up to its name. As I walked down the cobblestone road of my new neighborhood, to the right was a steady incline of green sea; to the left stretched an expanse of the sea itself. The air is fresh and there is coffee, grapes, wine, fish, avocados, papaya, mangoes and a variety of sweet ripe fruit. No refrigeration, no packaging, just the simple clean taste of the land and sea. A majority of it comes from within the volcano’s fertile soil, yet there are crops of green covering every inch of this place.
I find it difficult to believe that I will ever let the memory of seeing my new house slip from my mind. Large, bright and welcoming, it faces the ocean and looks out toward the island of Brava, almost like a lover admiring an object of affection from afar. There is a quintal (an area that opens the house to the outside) in the back where my room mate Callie and I will be able to plant a garden and hang our laundry out to dry. We have a plot of land with corn and limes growing alongside a papaya tree. Above our house is the roof where we will bati ropa (wash clothes) with the world at our feet. For now the inside of our house is just four walls of cement with a concrete floor. It is like a beautiful woman who lacks a sense of worth, but I see in it what I see in the school – a place of potential waiting patiently to be filled.
The school is modest at best. A sparse number of salas (rooms) surrounded by windows of broken glass. One building is unique in its beauty – it is built out of rocks of lava from the volcano. The door to one sala has been kicked open and within it are scattered pieces of trash along the floor, no doubt the remains of last year’s lesson plans. The children must have been learning about the names of bugs because there are drawings of spiders, flies, corta deidos (which literally means “finger cutter”), butterflies, etc. Written upon the tainted yellow door is: “WeLLcome to HeLL” in white chalk. Callie and I first balked at it but then could not decide whether we were more concerned about the content of the message or the fact that welcome was spelled with two L’s. Either way, we decided our presence here as teachers is necessary…if only to incorporate that door into the first day’s lesson… =)
We are staying at a quasi (semi) hotel and the couple that owns it lives across the street in a bar that has music and dancing on Sunday nights. They invited us over and after an amazing dinner we learned to dance some local dances typical of the island of Fogo. The music here, in comparison to Santiago’s, is more romantic and the dancing is more close and formal. I feel that the music of Santiago had more of an African fora (country) influence that is more wild and free. Like the people, the dancing here is more relaxed, laid back and intimate. The bar has mirrors along the walls and the dim lights reflected off the bodies of dancers in world that appeared dreamlike. We only have electricity until eleven tonight so I will turn in.
Until tomorrow…
Monday, September 11, 2006
I just had the kind of day that is probably indicative of the days they prepare you for in Peace Corps manuals. It consisted of frustration, weariness, hard work and then of enjoyment, reward and surprise…
The frustrating part:
We went into the city of Sao Felipe to check on the status of the items Peace Corps guarantees for us to have - bare essentials such as a stove, a table with four chairs, a refrigerator and two beds. The beds we discovered waiting for us in the city were nothing more than glorified cots and since Callie is six feet tall (and I’m not much shorter) we worked hard communicating that we did not need the TWO refrigerators they gave us but we did mattresses that accommodated the full length of our bodies. Our house has no running water and the electricity only works about six hours a day, so we picked our battle. Apparently our landlord skipped town to visit America without installing doors in our house (bathroom to boot) and on top of this we set about getting prices for everything from a washboard to finding a way to rig a place to hang our clothes. The city was hot and we were exhausted when we returned to Ponta Verde.
The amazing part:
All said and done, things worked out. A woman who is our counterpart, neighbor and co-worker has taken us under her wing and provided us already with a sense of family. Her children and some neighborhood kids went with us on a walk as the sun was going down. We hiked along the edge of a thin hill of green as certain houses made of stone were pointed out as places where future students of ours live. On both sides was a valley of plants and flowers. The sun shone softly upon the ripples of an expanse of ocean and horses stood grazing among spotted bits of white and purple flowers called sempre noiva (always married). The children laughed and spoke to us in Kriolu (a simple local language we learned during training) and led us by the hand to the edge of a cliff near the water. Certain kids would run ahead and then hide in the flowers to giggle at us and make us look for them. Butterflies and birds lazily glided through the cool wind that is only found in Ponta Verde but so sought after on this hot island. When I thought the moment had reached its peak of perfection, the kids threw a thousand bits of tiny flower petals into the air and they swirled in a beautiful fiery dance of orange and red. They called it a supresa (surprise) and I left the brilliant petals that had fallen into my hair, not wanting to wipe away the events of the day.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
A majority of the day was spent practicing the cardinal virtues required of Peace Corps volunteers: patience and flexibility. Over the past two months of training, these words have become more than cliché, but only because of their truth. To get anything done here requires ability to wait, wait and….wait some more - sometimes with the knowledge that in all likelihood things may not work out and therefore are not worth the wait in the first place. In our case, receiving our furniture was worth the wait. As of today, we have moved into our home with two full size beds, a table and chairs, a refrigerator and stove/oven. We had to fight to get a bed that did not resemble a cot, but it all worked out in the end.
I am beginning to realize that this island is HEAVILY influenced by American culture. Don’t get me wrong, there are things here you would never find in the States (such as traditional African dance, chickens, donkeys and naked babies running wild, etc), but I am finding it difficult to get people to speak solely in Kriolu. They like to speak a bit of what I call Kringlish because they think if they season their language with English words they know it will demonstrate their skills and their connection with America. But really, with the accent, the English words just catch me off guard and I would have understood them better if they had used the Kriolu word. The same goes for music. When I get in a truck for a ride, the driver automatically switches on the “latest” Britney Spears or 50 Cent hit. Mind you, these new hits are about three years old U.S.-wise. So basically, learning the culture and language are more of a struggle here, though it’s worth the additional effort.
I have found the way of the people here to be one of community solidarity. This particular town is so small that I think I already know half my community after only three days here. When we go to Sao Felipe, which is considered the third largest city in Cape Verde, we run into people we have already met who know us (big city? I don’t think so). Just to give you an idea of the size of this country, there are more Cape Verdeans living in the city of Boston, Massachusetts than in Cape Verde itself. I had a list of contacts from people in Sao Domingos who knew people in Ponta Verde a week before I left for it. Everyone knows everyone. And everyone knows exactly what you are doing and when. I remember being in Sao Domingos and telling my host mother what I had done during the day and her response was always “I know, I saw you,” or “I know, our neighbor Ana told me.” Anonymity is now officially a thing of the past. =)
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Errands are a risky business…I remember getting frustrated back at home as I looked for a space in the parking lot. Now the frustration is prolonged past the point of actual annoyance and transcends into a state of disbelief. Cars don’t run on schedule, the server for the Internet is down in the entire town, the van/taxi I sit in with all the new items I’ve bought for my house is piled upon my lap and we stop 25 times to pick up 25 people and are crammed into a space - pigs, chickens, toiletries and all.
But where the work is tedious, the rewards are awe-inspiring. I spent the day sweaty and frustrated, but ended it in my new home with a beautiful sunset throwing colorful light upon the glittering expanse of ocean. You can see Brava clearly from my house until it fades and the lights in the town go out. I spent my evening sitting on the roof wearing the traditional saia (dress) of Cape Verde. As I watched the most brilliant lightning storm dance over the contrast of a distant volcano, I wondered how I had earlier felt any bit of animosity toward a place so full of life.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I woke up fairly early and as my room mate Callie went for a run I set out to our well in order to leba agu (pull water) to put into the two bdongs (barrels) we have in the house. One needed to be filled in the bathroom for bath water and bucket flushes, and the other for the kitchen in order to cook, purify water and lava losa (wash dishes). Since there is no running water in the house, I go out to the back terrace near the roof to pull water from a well in the ground. Luckily it rains here a lot so the rainwater runs off the roof and into the well. I then drop a bucket into the well and pull up the water with a thick rope tied to its handle. I dump a few buckets into a larger bucket that I put on my head, walk into the house and dump into the bdong.
Water is only one way in which I’ve learned to be resourceful here. Callie and I found some old planks of wood near our house that we set atop some cinder blocks to create tables. Since our windows don’t have glass or anything to protect us from the rain, we took the leftover plastic from the packaging on our mattresses and cut out a square that we taped to the window in our bathroom. I filled a wine bottle with water and stuck a candle in its neck with a napkin beneath it to catch the wax, so now we have a decent light. I am currently taking cup baths using a leftover can of grao (chickpeas) as a cup and we even found a thrown away blanket that we use as a doormat in front of our house.
During what was no doubt a sorry attempt at transferring water into my house, I attracted a rather large group of onlookers who were apparently perplexed as to what the new American girl in town was doing, and why she was doing it so awkwardly. As I tried to continue the pace of my work I would throw out a few introductions in Kriolu beneath the bucket as I stumbled past. The children just stared at me wide-eyed and blankly while the elders of the neighborhood spoke so rapidly and with such enthusiasm I only caught about half of what they were trying to say. They gestured excitedly with their calloused hands and toothless smiling mouths about how wonderful America must be, how rich everyone is there and how burro (literally meaning “dumb”) everyone is in Cape Verde.
I realize my greatest challenge and responsibility here is to combat the stereotypical image people have about the States and how perfect they think everything there must be. Some Cape Verdeans have lived in the U.S., worked hard and then returned to live in Cape Verde in ridiculously large houses. Therefore, when poor people living in Cape Verde see this, they think everyone in America is rich and intelligent and happy. I think this may have a very negative influence on the way Cape Verdeans see themselves and their country. I was given a tour of such a house today. It was a house with four stories and nine bedrooms. One man who had no children lived there, in a beautiful yet empty house. The man who owned the house told Callie and I that he had made his money while living in America and that we should move out of the house in the fora (country) and move into the top floor of his home. When we tried to explain to him that we liked our house because we came here to learn about Caboverdeana (Cape Verdean culture), he balked at us and said he would never carry a bucket of water on his head.
As we were visiting our counterpart Lolo and her family it began to rain. Lolo’s mom taught us how to make bread and as we waited for the rain to die down we sat drinking coffee, eating pao (bread) and sharing superstitions relating to our culture. (For example, many Cape Verdeans tie a string around their children’s waists to ward off bad spirits). There were about ten of us crammed into a tiny room laughing and talking about our differences and similarities. I am beginning to feel a real sense of belonging here, and now it seems I have a family.
The lights are about to go out so I will close…
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Yesterday I was too tired to write. I had a long day in Sao Felipe trying to get the final necessities for our house before our reunions (meetings) with staff at the liceo (school) start Monday. I think about everything that takes little to no effort that I used to find tiring in the States and now laugh at myself. I remember referring to myself as “domestically challenged” before I got here. But what was so challenging about switching on a stove or turning on a faucet? What was so difficult about vacuuming carpet, throwing clothes in the washing machine or dishes into the dishwasher? I shook my head in disbelief all day as I swept our concrete floor and washed our dishes with water I had spent an hour transferring from a well on top of our house into a bdong in our kitchen. Being tired after a day of hard work takes on a whole new meaning here – you actually feel it.
Around lunchtime I visited a friend down the street and ate some apples that were grown in Fogo. The food here is plucked straight from the soil and everything is fresh. I have been drinking a lot of guava juice and eating fresh bread and fish. After we ate, we met up with some of my counterpart’s family and neighborhood friends to visit Salinas, a black sand beach that is “near” Ponta Verde. But it was not near. Our walk down was carefree and full of laughter, but just going downhill took us over an hour and a half. When we got to the beach, I kept thinking about how Cape Verde Peace Corps is nicknamed “posh corps” or “beach corps” by volunteers in other areas of Western Africa. I think that statement is valid in terms of the beauty of this place. Mountains as high and far as the eye can see stretch green and upward toward a cloudy blue sky. The varying shades of pure green contrasts with the black lava rock of the shore and the clear, swift current of the ocean. Horses, cows and goats graze peacefully along its cliffs. Colorful fishing boats lie along the black shore as beautiful locals jump into natural pools formed by the molten rock.
Life here is slow and when people walk by they expect to be invited to txiga (visit), even if they don’t know you. The same goes for every house you pass along the way somewhere. One day I was in a hurry to call my Peace Corps country director and just about every person along the road invited me in and would not take no for an answer. They will each often proceed to serve me a full course meal. Callie and I have learned quickly that leaving our front door open is an invitation for any random older villagers to walk in and make themselves comfortable. One day a man walked right on in as I was getting ready for the day and proceeded to point out all the things that our landlord had neglected to do properly in our house. Often curious children will linger behind plants and watch intently through our windows to see what their new American neighbors are doing. The brave ones will catch me doing something clumsy (like trying to carry a heavy bucket of water on my head) and instruct me on how to do it right. In some ways I feel like I am the child having to relearn everything again. Other times I feel like I am an animal on display at a zoo.
Although living here requires more effort, I am falling in love with this place – with its beauty, its people and its lessons.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Today I had to bati ropa (wash clothes) and let me tell you, it’s an experience. I drew water from our well, bucket-by-bucket, and filled up two large tubs to wash my clothes. I had trouble lugging the near-full tubs onto the roof, as you have to climb up a four-foot wall, which is not easy, even when you’re tubless. When I began to wash clothes with the large bar of soap and washboard I had fixed to the tub, I had grand ideals in mind – As I looked out at the beautiful view of the ocean and the island of Brava I figured I could wash my entire basket of clothes within two hours. Four weary hours (and a broken back) later I found myself putting clothespins on the last bit of line.
After I toma bano (took a bath) Callie and I went to return some dishes to a neighbor who had brought food to us as a welcome gift. When we arrived all the women and children of Ponta Verde were preparing to go to church. Though we hadn’t planned on going (and neither of us are Catholic), we decided it would be better to attend in order to meet the members of the community. The church was piqonoite (tiny) and shaped like a plus sign. In the middle was the pulpit and in four directions stretched a wing of the church where the attendees sat. So there was a wing behind the pulpit, in the front, and on both sides. During the service, the Father of the church unexpectedly introduced us to the community. I was slightly horrified because: a) I know very little about Catholicism, b) I am not completely familiar with the culture and customs yet, and c) our counterpart told the attendees we wanted to personally visit each and every house in Ponta Verde during our two years here. That’s 300 houses - and though I want to visit them all, I am deathly afraid that a few will go unvisited and I’ll have a few vizinhos shatiados (angry neighbors) on my hands.
Regardless, I think attending church was vitally important to allowing us to integrate. When we stood up in front of the church I felt it was an opportunity (clumsy as it was) to let people know who we are and why we’re here. I am here to teach, but I feel I’m here mainly to get to know the lives of the people who live here – who they are, what they care about, what they value…today was a step in the right direction. Now we have let the community know that the next two years we are not Americans, we are Caboverdeanas.
Monday, September 18, 2006
We had our first staff meeting at the liceo in Sao Felipe today and met with all the teachers there along with teachers from the satellite schools of Ponta Verde and Cova Figuera. I am constantly surprised at how welcoming everyone is when we are introduced as volunteers from the Peace Corps. It’s not so much their hospitality that catches me off guard but the manner in which they express it. People seem to go above and beyond to make us feel at home here. Even within a professional atmosphere, they are able to communicate more personal warmth. We were met with broad smiles and strong “Bon dia” s and were applauded when introduced at the staff meeting of sixty or so teachers.
After the meeting, Callie and I returned to Ponta Verde in a buleia (ride) that is more or less a rickety pickup truck with a top secured to the bed and fashioned as a communal taxi. People, groceries, babies and animals pile into it and hold on for dear life as the vehicle makes its dusty way through rocky cobblestone paths. Once we arrived home, neighborhood children stopped by our house carrying welcome dishes of homemade bread, locally grown pepinos (cucumbers) and catxupa (a traditional Cape Verdean dish made mainly of beans and corn). In order to thank the families that brought us food we visited the people in our zona. The older women here are strong and beautiful. Despite how poor they may be, they all wear earrings made of Portuguese gold and wrap their hair in colorful scarves. They gestured us into houses made of pedra (stone) and surrounded by colorful flowers. Many of the tiny houses were filled with the thick and welcoming aroma of catxupa - its smoky flavor wafted through the air as we sat and talked about life in this tiny rural village.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
I woke up around six in the morning and went on a 40-minute morning run along steep cobblestone paths nestled into lush green hills that overlook a glass ocean. I caught a ride to the villa (Sao Felipe) and attended a staff meeting with the English coordinator (who is Portuguese) and other English instructors who work there. I checked some books out of a meager library at the school and then searched for an Internet place in the city that had luz (electricity). I discovered Mike there, a volunteer who has worked a year in Mosteiros teaching. We bought some fruit and vegetables from the market and then walked for about twenty minutes uphill looking for a ride back to Ponta Verde. When we finally did get an iasi (van/bus) we realized about three minutes into it that we were going the wrong way and it was an ordeal convincing the iasi driver that we wanted out…we still had to pay him full fare.
Our wrong turn left us stranded in the middle of a desert-like landscape on the outskirts of Sao Felipe. We hiked down to the road leading the Ponta Verde and waited for an iasi. Instead, we caught a ride on the back of a large truck and stood on the back as it halted and titled clumsily (yet quickly) around turns and through pools of water in broken parts of the road. As it started to txuba (rain) I felt like I was on a ride in a theme park, bouncing along the track and dodging the spray of water. When I returned home I had just enough time to take a well-needed cup bath and grab some food before I went with some neighborhood friends to watch a futbol (soccer) game in the polivalente (concrete “stadium”) the next zona over. It was a big deal for Ponta Verde because it was a rival game against the neighboring Galinheiro (a zona which means chickens, since a lot of chickens are raised there). The audience that lined the walls of the polivalente was in a frenzy and I have never seen people so hyped up for a game. Every time the ball came remotely near a goal everyone would grita (scream) loudly either in protest or encouragement.
Unfortunately the excitement was cut short by the sounds of thunder - which most people are comically afraid of here - and as the rain began to pour, people screamed in fear and themselves poured out of the polivalente to look for shelter. Callie and I ended the night making our first official cooking attempt. It took about two hours, but we were able to concoct a rice and chicken dish with onions, peppers and tomatoes. I was just awake enough to eat it and am now about to pass out.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Time here passes in a way that is immeasurable. My perception of it twists and turns and just when I think I have a grasp of it, it flies loose and gets away from me like a butterfly fleeing the clasp between cupped palms. It seems that already a week has gone by and I have not had the chance to write, which is sad because it has been an amazing one. I feel that the memories may now be lost somewhere in the depths of my mind…
The weekend raced by with a vengeance, and on Monday I became a teacher. I teach 7th grade English to three turmas (classes) and each class has its own personality. The thing about teaching 7th grade is that there is both a pressure and an opportunity to provide a strong foundation of English for these children. Because America is seen as the “promise land” to so many people here, there is a strong desire to learn the language and go there to live. Yet, despite the heavy influence of the culture, I was amazed at how little most of the students knew of the language. When I spoke words like “hello” or “thank you” all I got in return was the blank stare of 60 beady eyes. Yet the challenge is an exciting one – I spoke Kriolu on my first day of class and told the kids a little about myself. I asked them how long they thought I had lived in Cabo Verde and most guessed two years. I explained to them that I understood the difficulties of learning another language and that if they needed help they could feel free to ask me…but that I would speak only in English, as the direct method is the way I am learning to speak their language.
My mom says that when I was eleven years old I told her I wanted to join the Peace Corps. To be here is something I’ve wanted for a long time, yet I never could have guessed I would be a teacher. I now see teaching as an amazing job to have and when I think of the teachers in the past who have spoken truth not only to my head but also to my heart, I think the best way to transcend the language barrier is to do the same.
It’s malaria pill day so I’m off to a glass of water. Txau txau (bye-bye). Tuesday, October 3, 2006
In the “beginning”…after the Creator had finished shaping the universe and was putting his final touches on the planet he wiped his dirty hands and the dirt that fell into the ocean became Cape Verde, this archipelago of ten islands that has recently become my home. Or so the saying goes…
This creation myth, I believe, may have been born from the reference that Cape Verde is comprised of the “forgotten islands.” When I received a Peace Corps package in the mail that said I was going to Cape Verde, I hadn’t the faintest idea where Cape Verde was. Yet I’d like to believe the idea that God brushed his hands together came from a more austere idea - that Cape Verde was not a forgotten mistake but rather a kind of divine intervention where the islands are not islands at all but rather fragments of all the parts of the world. When I sit on the black sand beach and watch the light dance across the grains of sand in my hands I imagine what sticks to my skin is a sparkling map of its own and I can see everywhere at once. In each flash of light I see a window that leads somewhere new and I brush my hands of the dirt and watch the islands fall into place over the ocean. This is how I like to think of Cape Verde.
I thought a lot about this on Sunday as personnel of Peace Corps stopped by our house and offered to take us with them on a “tour” of the island to visit the sites of other volunteers who live here. The CD (Community Development) volunteer from Sao Felipe met us and we went to visit the two male volunteers living in Mosteiros, a town not too far from Ponta Verde. Then we made our way around the island to visit a female volunteer in Cova Figuera, and ended our trip in Cha das Calderas, where a friend of mine lives within the volcano toward the interior of Fogo.
Fogo rises steeply from the ocean, and stands firmly through the clouds as high and forbidding as a fortress. I once read in a travel book that Fogo was: “a menacing place: dark lava flows from centuries of eruptions to reach down its eastern side to the ocean. But it has a soft heart. Amongst the clods of cold lava that have covered much of the floor of the crater are fertile fields. Spilling over its northeast side (where I live) are woods of eucalyptus and cool valleys in which grow coffee and vines. Inside the crater lives a race of people who have defied government orders to evacuate and instead live and farm below the smoldering peak that last erupted in 1995.”
Cha, the area mentioned above, was both riveting and eerie in its stillness. Within the crater of the volcano live descendants of a Frenchman who had over 60 children. Almost everyone there has blonde hair and light eyes. They sit amidst a black sand backdrop with the peak of a volcano looming overhead. The dirt swirls and catches their bare ankles and dusty feet. They hold trinkets shaped like the traditional round houses and pointed roofs, houses made of lava rock and sold to European tourists who find themselves lost in this strange land where African children have striking blonde hair.
Looking back on the day, I am astounded that a small island can contain such variety. A twenty-minute car ride can send you from the lush green of cornfields to a barren desert of heat. Twenty minutes from there you may find yourself in a rough fishing village full of deportees or in a lazy town with dispersed houses existing in contrast with the interior life of a volcano just above. The island of Fogo has come to epitomize what Cape Verde represents itself: a lovely, shocking, wonderful, frustrating mixture of all. The culture is a dash of Portugal, a blend of Africa, a hint of Brazil, a slice of America…and a whole lot of Cape Verde. Thursday, October 5, 2006
There are plenty of things to learn in this world – and there are an equal amount of things to teach. Teaching children another language feels like teaching someone to think differently, to see life in a way that is unique to them, and to have new ideas. Today during class as I walked around to monitor a text my students were copying into their cadernas (composition notebooks) it hit me: I’m a teacher. As I paced the room and looked over the shoulders of their navy blue striped school uniforms, I watched in patient silence as they wrote down the English words in impeccable cursive. Their heads were bent over their pages, eyes were squinting and a few tongues stuck out in concentration as they copied down the foreign material. I can empathize with the confusion, as I spoke my first words of Kriolu just three months ago, yet every day I watch the strands of code form understanding as I enter the classroom.
“Good morning class,” I say.
“GOOD MORNING TEACHER!” is always their high-pitched and beaming response.
There are moments when I know I have a lot to learn, like when a lesson is dragging and I can’t for the life of me figure out a way to make a grammar point exciting. So I make the class stand up with me and we all laugh as they follow my instructions to raise their little hands into the air, wave them around and stretch out the boredom. In these moments I watch as life returns to the room and the repetition of words slowly weaves the fragile threads of understanding.
It will not always be like this. I know that as the hands of clocks continue their relentless pace, with time this tall white woman who comes from America and speaks English will lose its awe-inspiring celebrity and the curious stares I get will make way to familiarity and all that comfort implies when it comes to the behavior of students. Yet for now I am soaking it all in; like the warm feeling of sun peeking through passing clouds on a breezy day.
Friday, October 6, 2006
I have begun to find great pleasure in uncomplicated things. Yesterday I sat on my front porch overlooking the ocean kaska (“shelling”) green beans with a neighborhood boy who had brought over what he’d picked that day in the fields. The beans looked like normal peas in a pod, but within were different brightly colored beans that humorously resembled Jelly Beans. I sat with my feet hanging over the edge of my house and shelled them, discovering the striking bright blues, greens, pinks and whites nestled within the pods with a contentedness that I did not know I was capable of feeling. I was listening to a CD of Cape Verdean music an iasi driver had made me and as we sat the boy and I talked and swayed as we sang along with the mellow island melodies. In these moments I am gripped by the desire to transport my friends and family to my side in order to share the beautiful simplicity of this life.
The children here are incredibly self-reliant. They are so connected with the earth that any one of them can take you by the hand, lead you through the six-foot high cornfields and point out each variety of plant. They know the sex of each plant, the name and the exact moment each should be harvested. If you are sick, as I was yesterday, a child knows to take an orange peel and boil it in water with sugar to make the greepe (sickness) go away. It is strange to be in a world where your eyes see everything as new and for the first time. In a foreign place the words that leave your lips are awkward and dissected with great care so that one feels a bit like a stumbling fool when trying to express the most elementary of ideas. I am in awe as I in essence learn how to walk again, how to take care of myself and find my way…it is a humbling thing to be led by the hand of a child.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Since I have lived in Ponta Verde, there are two things I am sure of: One, to have eight, or nine, or twelve siblings is normal; and Two, Ponta Verde’s futbol (soccer) games are the next biggest thing since Michael Bolton (yesss…they love him here).
Callie and I attended the “last” futbol game against the rivaling team of Galinheira today. The memory of my first jogo (game) is still fresh in my mind. I remember standing amidst the crowds of high-pitched shrieking Cape Verdeans and thinking, “Wow, these people really get worked up over these games.” The guys on the team prepare and warm up in front of the crowd with a celebrity-like façade. As they stretch, hundreds of eyes admire their every move. When a team member makes a goal, the humble little stadium erupts in screams and everyone jumps about in sheer giddiness. Fans of the rivaling team are just as loud in their protests, making intimidating gestures and shouting smart remarks to their boastful neighbors. I made the mistake once of sitting on the wrong side and cheering for Ponta Verde…let’s just say I will not make that mistake again.
…And that’s just for normal games - today was a big game. The score was tied and the sun was beyond set. One had to squint in concentration in order to make out the tiny white globe that bounced about and was the center of everything. The tied score ended in a kickoff where the entire stadium poured out onto the field around the teams and rooted them on in their final attempts at success. It was not a fair game. I have a friend who claims he plays on the team, but since I have never actually seen him do more than stand on the sidelines I have dubbed him “mascot” in reference to his comic dedication. He was taking pictures of the alternate team’s goalie, blinding him in the unnatural light before each kick. When Ponta Verde made the final tie-breaking goal I witnessed one of the most enthusiastic responses from a crowd I have ever seen. The sea of children, women and men rushed the team as they were carried in the air; a plastic gold trophy held firmly above the teammates’ heads like a guiding light as they were heaved out of the polivalente and onto the winding uphill road to Ponta Verde.
I was able to walk ahead of the madness, as a great many young men stopped at the local store to drink shots of grog (a potent alcohol made in Cape Verde) to celebrate their triumph. About ten minutes into the walk, chanting, singing and high whistles could be heard from the quickly approaching group. Looking behind me I was just barely able to make out the silhouettes of the team members jogging in all their glory - fans and worshippers in tow - trophy held high above the deafening crowd. They slowed when they saw me and I was swept up in the transportable festivity, surrounded by shouts of glee and arms raised in victory.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Today I went to the Festa de Gracas da Nossa Senora, a religious holiday that the entire town had been talking up for weeks. People from all parts of the island were to congregate in a mass of confusion and chaos in Galinheira, a neighboring zone near Ponta Verde. We took our time during the 30-minute walk to the festa and as we rounded the last corner, two mangled cars and a crowd of animated onlookers gestured furiously amidst the wreck that blocked the only road that circles around the island of Fogo. Cars backed up along the cobblestone path and I recognized one of the iasi drivers as he stood mournfully silent alongside his dented vehicle. After staring dumbly at the mess and lending some words of sympathy to my friend whose mode of income lay mangled in the street, we hesitantly moved on, following the sounds of music below.
I met with some colleagues who are about my age (teachers who work with me at the school) and we entered a tiny bar to sit and take in an eyeful of what was happening all around. I strategically placed myself in a corner between my friends to avoid contact with any deportees or forward men who are accustomed to striking up unwanted conversation with American girls like myself. Often, the ones who have lived in Boston or Brockton have an irresistible urge to connect with me and throw cheesy pickup lines in English with a thug-like accent that they deem undeniably attractive. I find them fastento (annoying).
Within the tiny local bar a few older men were playing traditional music from the terra (grassroots Cape Verdean music). One man was playing a violin and there was a comic liveliness of their movements that inspired a great many old men to jump out of their chairs and frolic about on spindly legs, smiling toothless gums and flailing their joyful hands all about. Boston deportees sat wearing their American baseball hats tipped back in boredom, looking into their glasses of Black Label as though at any moment something more interesting would pop out and amuse them. As for me, I was completely entertained by the random spectacle before my eyes and I sat perplexed, taking in this strange mix of a party where the traditional broke free from its stagnant state and danced gleefully about its oppressor, youth, sitting uninterested with impatient eyes.
When we tired of watching the generations rub elbows within the bar, we made our way to a concrete building that was still under construction yet temporarily posing as a makeshift club of some sort. Music vibrated from within and bodies writhed and sweat within the limited space. As we entered, my face met with a blast of heat and I made my way quickly through the dance floor, which appeared utterly alive amidst the twisting and turning all around. Outside among the concrete floor and metal shafts sticking out from all sides of the unfinished building, I stood sweating in the heat in wonder of the fact that this unfinished structure was the hottest “club” on the island. I soon opted to return to the street where the festa was in full swing. People were devouring fried chicken and pantomiming entire conversations amidst grease, Kriolu and confusion. It was not long before I decided to return to the calmness of Ponta Verde.
When I got back to my little town I sat in the shade along a wall that overlooks the ocean and dangled my bare feet over the edge. I could hear the cool breeze rustle the leaves of the corn stalks as I brushed my toes along the green rubbery plants. Some friends of mine stopped by and sat with me and we rested in the shade until the shadows became long, the sun went down and there was nothing but darkness and contented silence.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
I remember when I was in 10th grade a friend of mine had a German exchange student living with his family for a semester. I met him at a birthday party and noticed with sympathetic hilarity that the poor kid had no idea what was going on. He was tall, awkward and dressed funny. I clearly recall a moment when a group of us sat talking about how ill at ease he was and joking about his inability to speak the language. It was all in good fun and looking back I realize it was rather cruel to be secretly whispering about this student who was so obviously out of his element. But let me tell you – this German exchange student, God help him, was hilarious. He simply had no clue what was going on. He was a fish out of water, floundering for a breath of understanding amidst an unknown environment.
Well, today I was the German foreign exchange student.
I was told there was a festa at a house that is under construction down the road. Since I had arrived at an event last week sorely underdressed I was careful not to make the same mistake twice. I took a bath, put on makeup, and dressed in black slacks and a white formal shirt. After taking a final glance in the mirror before we left, Callie and I headed down the road for the party, dressed to the nines. As we approached we realized we had made a horrible mistake. The “festa” was really a gathering for friends and neighbors to get together and help finish building the house of a couple - everyone was dressed in dirty and ragged clothes, covered in cement and sweating under their efforts to construct the house. About thirty dirty men who were shoveling rocks greeted us. The women were busy cooking food within a smoke-filled room and transferring buckets of water to make the cement.
I could have died!
Everyone was very polite about the cultural blunder but behind their welcoming smiles was a twinkle in their eyes that did little to hide the fact that they were holding back laughter. We immediately excused ourselves and ran back up the hill to change into dirty t-shirts and tie bandanas around our heads. Once we returned we were given cups of warm goat milk and cous cous. We began transferring water from the well to the house in order for the men to make cement for the roof. It was a spectacle to see the amount of people who had shown up to help this couple. Almost everyone from our neighborhood was there on his or her Sunday afternoon, completely dedicated to the task of building this house.
There are many times that I am struck by the poverty of people here, or the lack of access to things on this isolated island, but I am always amazed by the fact that these people are rich in their dedication to one another. It is an honest devotion that comes from an environment where everyone is family, or grew up together as children. They are sometimes rude or short to one another, but with an air of familiarity. It reminds me of how I can argue with a sibling, and then five minutes later we are the best of friends.
Once the house was finished, old women with cauldrons of food began handing out Cape Verdean dishes and we all sat and ate as they set off loud fireworks. People began opening bottles of wine, made from the grapes that grow within the volcano of Cha das Calderas. It began raining but no one seemed to notice as the music continued to play and people began dancing in the street. Their faces and hands were raised to the dark sky as the showers fell down upon the lush fields that swayed and danced along with their joyous bodies. I forgot that I was the “foreign exchange student” and joined them.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Today I awoke to the sounds of wind rustling through the cornfields through the wooden slats of the janela (window) above my bed. I heard three sets of little bare feet slamming against the concrete floor outside. Hurried shuffles and suppressed giggles made their way from the front of the house around to the back where the quintal is. I knew these sounds well – they came from a few of the six children who live in the house across the cornfield. Almost every morning, without fail, I hear a knock at my door and lo and behold, these tiny criancas (children) with dark skin, blonde hair, big brown eyes and tattered clothes are smiling up at me. Their presence at our house is a daily assumption. What began as adorable quickly took the form of bothersome (after the daily visits turned into 6-times-a-day visits), and now I find myself admittedly lonely if they do not show up.
I waited, anticipating the konko na porta (knock on the door) but all I could make out was the excited babyish lisps whispering in hushed giddiness beneath my window.
“Callie?” I called to my roommate. No answer. Wondering what was going on, I heaved myself from the enveloping arms of sleep and punched open the slats of window that were poorly made and creak open only with great effort. Shafts of blinding light danced through the leaves of a papaya tree and into my room; little beads of day rained down on my face and I regained sight long enough to catch tiny feet scurrying around the corner toward the quintal. It was then that I remembered the surprise. For days, Callie had been disappearing and returning as mysteriously and as quietly as she had left, always with a mischievous grin on her face. When I questioned her strange behavior, she always answered, “Ku tempo (with time).” I was to espera un bokadinho (wait a little bit), a phrase we often remind each other through suppressed smiles, as waiting a little while in Cape Verde can often turn into hours, or even days of anticipation. That day had apparently arrived.
Not wanting to waste my time dressing, I threw on a wrap and tied it around my neck as a dress, shuffling into my brown flip flops that are quickly wearing thin from constant walking on brutal cobblestone streets. I shut the heavy front door behind me and made my way through the tall stalks of corn, up the unsteady dirt path where we pull water, over the giant cement block to the platform where our well sits and down the back steps to the quintal. Rounding the corner, I discovered that the garden, previously overgrown with weeds, trash, and long-forgotten clothing was now spotless. I looked around in awe and marveled at the fertile dark soil, the malegetta (chili pepper) tree that had been trimmed from its wild and sprawling state into a tidy bush with red accents, and the four beaming faces smiling at me with expectation. “Supreza!” they squealed, arms open wide to monstra (demonstrate) their triumph. Callie and the girls had spent days sa ta padja (weeding) the abandoned no man’s land that was once the back of our house. Now it was a beautiful clean haven.
We spent the day finishing the task of cleaning the quintal. The tiniest girls swept the floor of the cobblestone as the older ones ran back and forth collecting colorful flowers with the roots attached to plant them among the papaya trees. We dug little holes in the dirt with sticks and set the weeds on fire. Tiny hands carefully placed the roots of flors (flowers) into the ground and when all was patiently positioned we stood and looked at the work in progress.
Back home I considered a big gift something like a ticket to a concert, new clothes, a free tank of gas. Here, where gifts are hard to come by and smiles are given out by the handful, this surprise instilled a contentedness that lasted throughout the day. I am beginning to understand the importance of giving a polite handshake and kiss, cheek-to-other-cheek, to everyone I meet - whereas I didn’t even know the neighbors who lived across from me back home. I know that when I finally find a precious pack of Smarties from the States in a loja (store), I should hand out most of them before I eat it, no matter how hard they are to come by here. I get back what I give tenfold, yet in a type of currency that is best described in an expression here: Rico in sono mais pobre en ouro (rich in dreams but poor in gold).
I have been in Cape Verde almost four months now, and every day it becomes evident that the assumptions I have made about life here shift and change from moment to moment, like the sunsets I watch from my front porch every evening. Easter egg blue turns to a clear hue near the edge of the water where suddenly somber tone snaps like a broken pen and leaks a brilliant magenta across the backdrop of orange and gold. Life here is like a sunset – predictable to an extent, and then shocking when you least expect it.
Thursday, November 2, 2006
There are days of journals left unwritten; almost weeks of moments lost within my mind that will never be captured to the page. I am triste (sad) that I have not had the time to write for so long, but attempting to capture a day here is something I value and I would rather it remain perfect in my thoughts than tainted in a rushed attempt to jot it all down.
That said, one event stands out vividly that deserves to be mentioned. I went to the birthday party of a woman I have grown close to during my time here. She lives in the same house as one of my students along with about 12 other people – she has long jet-black hair, no children, a saucy disposition and … has lived almost a century here in Ponta Verde. The community helped her celebrate her 99th birthday last week and we spent days preparing food for the occasion. She is old and a legend among the people who live here, and I think she has taken a liking to me - when she sees me, she smiles a gummy grin and motions whoever sitting next to her to please get out of the way and let me sit down. She then proceeds to put my arm in a firm 99-year-old grip the entire stay, slipping handfuls of food my way, usually already half-eaten by her.
People say this 99-year-old woman is in such great health because she never had children, something that is unheard of here. The women in Cape Verde, on average, have eight to fifteen children in two-bedroom houses. Their lives are their work. Since there are no actual jobs in the community besides the three tiny “stores” that sell alcohol and a few household necessities, everyone works the land. I often see the six-year-old boy next door bringing in a load of plants from the fields before the sun comes up in the mornings. He is just three-and-a-half feet tall (small for his age from lack of proper nutrition). Like a worker ant carrying a load two times his size upon his back, as he walks beside his grandfather. The two walk the path wearily, side by side, trailed by a worn donkey beneath the early morning twilight as I go for my run. Many times I have seen them still at it during my walk home at night, one small, one slightly larger, two shadowy silhouettes bent in the night along the familiar, aching path.
Friday, November 3, 2006
Ponta Verde is a world all its own. It is a universe of surface value - a shifting, twirling façade that shields reality like a battered cloak. Walk down the main road and my community appears, by all accounts, to be pretty Americanized. People who have made their money in the States and returned to Ponta Verde live off of their hard earned nest eggs that took nearly twenty years of brutal factory work in the poorer slums of Massachusetts to earn. The three-story houses rise grandly from the humble road below in a glory that seems to proclaim, “Look what America bought me!”
Yet behind houses of beautifully decorated empty rooms lies a backdrop of stark poverty. People who wake up in the dark, light candles, walk an hour or so to their land and harvest the day away. People who bring these loads of harvest – squash, corn, peanuts, potatoes, peppers – and then unload, peel, pound and cook. People who haul water from a well twenty minutes away and balance the heavy buckets above their heads, who at the end of it all have enough energy left to eat and begin again hours later. I dropped by one of my student’s houses last night for the first time. When I peered through the door of her one-bedroom house, I looked in as she and her seven siblings were huddled around one candle, studying their homework together in the darkness. Light danced around the walls and cast shadows among their intent faces.
On the surface, many people here like to sport jerseys from American teams, throw out phrases in English and flaunt knowledge of the culture I know so well but left behind. They imitate life in the States so convincingly that I am shocked, time and time again to find teens who look like they’ve stepped out of hip hop music videos emerging from shacks or walking a pig down the road. Imitation goes only so deep. I have been told Fogo is “old school” and there is definitely a conservative nature in regard to the separation of gender spheres. Whereas most of my friends back home were guys, here a two-minute conversation with one can lead to a 300-person community speaking of the scandal the following day. So basically, talk to a member of the opposite sex who bears no relation and bam, whether you know it or not, you’re considered an item. Goodbye anonymity, hello celebrity status in Ponta Verde!
What I’ve discovered is that this change-up between what appears to be and what truly is can be utterly confusing. As a strangeiro (foreigner), what is assumed usually comes with a smokescreen. Here, if a person is asked a question, they will give the answer they think you want to hear, and not necessarily the unspoken one that is needed. Questions such as “should I wear formal or casual clothing to this event?” or “is it acceptable for women to drink in public?” are always met with, “oh, casual clothing is fine!” or “sure it is, go ahead!” or, my favorite, “qual ker,” which literally means, whichever you want. Countless wardrobe blunders and cultural mishaps later I have learned to sit back and imitate the actions of the women around me as a means of avoiding future cultural slip-ups. It is a daily progress.
In essence, living in Ponta Verde is like a game of chutes and ladders. With a new community, job, life and language to learn, it’s normal to take five steps forward and two steps back. There are unexpected setbacks followed by immense gains. Each day is a new roll of the dice.
Saturday, November 4, 2006
My room mate Callie and I ran all the way to Lomba today - a neighboring zone tucked into the ribeira (riverbed) that snakes its way up the outer shell of the volcano – as opposed to our regular, more forgiving route. The run was an uphill battle, much like our experience here as volunteers. As we are opening up a new site, every turn comes along with a new shift of pace and we must balance our endurance with what lies ahead as unknown. Every morning I wake up in a tiny bubble of a world that shrinks a little smaller.
One thing I have learned about life in Ponta Verde is that women, despite their strength and vitality, are often submissive in the presence of men. I have seen many an annoyed girl calmly tolerate the grip of a man’s hand on her arm, though her face reveals the discomfort in having to do so. It may be too early for me to acknowledge all the ways in which women silently rebel against their second-class status, but when Callie and I announced to our classes that we were organizing a game at the polivalente for girls it became clear that their lack of participation in sports was not for lack of interest. Their eyes lit up and some jumped out of their seats beaming.
So in a world where everything runs an hour late, I was not surprised to see a group of girls waiting outside our house an hour early. Their attire ranged from soccer jerseys with cleats, to bare feet and tattered clothing, to miniskirts and high heels. Regardless of their dress, it was clear that this was quite an event for them. I had invited the boys from my classes, in case they were interested in watching, but wondered whether or not they would show. I shouldn’t have wondered. When we arrived at the polivalente, of our 200 students, almost all were in attendance, even the boys. There were already a bunch of older guys kicking a soccer ball around, but when we took the field and began counting off teams, a few volunteered to referee for us, since Callie and I know very little abut the rules of soccer beyond our two teams, two goals, kick-the-ball-knowledge.
Overall our first organized community activity was a success. There were a couple heated arguments, a bit of squabbling over teams and a sprained ankle; but despite the confusion, the girls got a day to get up off the benches and play, and the boys sat in the crowd. The excitement from the boys, however, along with the realization that the younger boys of Ponta Verde never have actual organized tournaments either, led to our decision to have them play in the future as well. When we finally left the polivalente a few hours later, a line of our students trailed us up the steep narrow path and onto the main road back to Ponta Verde. As we walked, my students surrounded me and asked for the names of animals, plants and vegetables in English. Since they have a test next week, I asked them questions we have been using as dialogue in the class. What is your name? How old are you? Where do you live? When is your birthday? Who is your teacher? What is your favorite subject? What is your phone number? Why are you here?…Their interest and inexperienced voices beginning to make sense of the foreign words gave me a sense of satisfaction, their progress settling in on me like a calm pool.
But the day was not done. We parted ways with our students near the path that breaks off toward our house and changed clothes for the birthday of one of our friends. We made a rare discovery of oatmeal in the villa earlier this week (from the looks of us jumping up and down in the tiny store and clutching the oatmeal to our chests, finding the red and white tins of imported delicacy was like reading the winning numbers of a lottery ticket). So we attempted to make oatmeal chocolate cookies, sans brown sugar and substituted with Snickers bars. We carried our concoction to our friend’s house and a group of us subi monte (climbed the large hill) that overlooks Ponta Verde on one side and a sparkling ocean view of the sunset on the other. At the top, we had a picnic and sang “Parabens a Voce,” the Portuguese version of “Happy Birthday.”
Later that evening we met up with some friends and went to a gathering at a house where the mother of the family was having a goodbye party before she left her husband and children to work in America. Because of the lack of work, countless Cape Verdeans are forced to leave their families behind to work difficult jobs in the States so they can send their earnings home to improve the lives of the people they love. In fact, there are more Cape Verdeans living in the city of Boston, Mass. than in the entire country of Cape Verde itself. I met one woman this week who was sitting with her children in her lap at a gathering. Over the head of her youngest daughter who was curled gratefully in her arms, she told me she had a good job that “paid well” working for KFC in America – and that maybe after a few years she would have enough money for a better way of life.
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Each passing day I am able to unveil a bit more from the curtain that shrouds my perception of Cape Verde. The inexplicable silences despite the shocking volume; the unspoken secrets; the acceptable yet simultaneously ironic forthrightness…There is vital information that I am not aware of often until it is too late. I have a friend, a neighbor, who I recently discovered has eight children from a variety of fathers. I have another friend, a woman who I look to as an aunt, who teaches me to make cous cous and freskinhas (bags of frozen juice like Popsicles). I was walking down the road with one, and encountered the latter sitting in the shade. As I spoke with the one in the shade, the other gave a curt greeting and appeared suddenly rushed and irritable. I was broken away from my conversation by the other’s impatience and it wasn’t until ten minutes of racking my brain later that I realized the cause. I had to dig deep, to create what I like to think of as a version of the “Seven degrees of Kevin Bacon,” a game that states any actor that is named can be traced back to Bacon through less than seven co-starring roles. As I continued to think, it all became clear – the woman in a rush had an illegitimate child with a man who is married to a woman whose next-door neighbor is the brother of the woman sitting in the shade. Yes … this is the kind of awareness necessary to avoid stepping on the cultural toes of Cape Verde. With the idea that I had left the experience of high school drama far behind me, the small town rural community of Ponta Verde has the long-forgotten feel of adolescent times and I find the nostalgia of years past biting pertinently at my heels.
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Of a myriad of books that exist in this world, my most memorable read was “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath. Although I have read her journals in the past, I am rereading them, as television (and any other form of entertainment) is far from reach, and my love affair with the written word has revived. I am devouring my dwindling selection one by one. In a passage of her unabridged journals, Plath writes:
“I seem to grow more acutely conscious of the swift passage of time as I grow older. When I was small, days and hours were long and spacious and there was play and acres of leisure, and many children’s books to read. I remember that I was writing a poem on “Snow” when I was eight. I said aloud, “I wish I could have the ability to write down the feelings I have now while I’m still little, because when I grow up I will know how to write, but I will have forgotten what being little feels like.” And so it is that childlike sensitivity to new experiences and sensations seems to diminish in an inverse proportion to the growth of technical ability. As we become polished, so do we become hardened and guilty of accepting, eating, sleeping, seeing, and hearing too easily and lazily, without question. We become blunt and callous and blissfully passive as each day adds another drop to the stagnant well of our years.”
About a year ago I lost my lifelong collection of poetry. There were hundreds of pages that were wiped out in a corrupted file. It was my own fault, as I entrusted my innermost thoughts to a scheming technological machine with a corrupt agenda. But lost with those words were the expression of my adolescence. I feel as though the more I learn in life, the more confusing it all becomes. As Plath writes, youth’s brilliant and fresh perspective is injured by an inability to transform feeling into art. Likewise, the maturity’s capacity to express is hindered and jaded by the apathy that is experience’s loyal companion. This web of reality is spun intricately, with the same precision and awe-inspiring accuracy of the enormous spider that hangs reliably outside my kitchen window. Yet the more intricately woven the web, the more difficult it is to determine the beginning of things. My thoughts and perspectives are like the gentle lines of mesh – a production of theories and perspectives that hold me adrift a rocking tumultuous sky. Yet distinguishing one from the other is a solid, daily task. At the center of this craft is the aging me, attempting feverishly to renew previously constructed lines and make sense of it all, sans the vanished blueprints of my past.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
This environment is harsh - on the body, the mind, the soul. True, Cape Verde is aptly named “posh corps” by mainland volunteers, yet there is something about the life here that requires a bit of wearing in. I look at my hands and feel the rough calloused palms with the soft and feathery virginity of my fingertips, the firm raised skin only beginning to respond to the washing of clothes, carrying of water, and pounding of corn. More than one Cape Verdean has looked upon the deep cracks forming along my heels with a sympathetic smile of familiarity; and in the early morning darkness, as I look into the small mirror in my bathroom, the flickering light of a candle reveals tiny lines beginning to form in the corners of my previously taught eyes.
Like my body, layers of myself are falling away. Weaknesses, like the softness of flesh, are chafed and exposed. What lies beneath the exterior is revealed, and I inspect myself with the innocent eyes of a child. The previously ignored grooves that encase who I am and the pale, reticent fragility of what exists beneath. I rub up against Cape Verde and it rubs me back with a ferocity that reveals the entirety of my being, and I am left a bit sore.
Thursday, November 9, 2006
Here, pleasure is derived from an unexpected gift that happens to cross the casual path. I gave my first test today and the students did not perform at the standard I was expecting. As I walked up the steep cobblestone path, squinting in the harsh sunlight and dreaming of a cup of water, my room mate Callie picked up the dry corpse of a monarch butterfly from a gray stone. In our boredom we inspected it, took its wings in our fingers and spread them wide to admire the intricate patterns of brilliant orange, deep black and blinding white of its wings. Then Callie placed the dead insect in her palm and blew it into the air. For a moment, a slight warm breeze carried the papery fragment of color across a deep blue sky. It danced through the wind in a feverish liveliness and then faltered, paused and twirled silently to the ground.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
I watched a pig die today. It was a huge, fat quivering mass of light pink flesh. I stared as its willful weight was dragged to its death against the harsh concrete. Tiny hoofs scraped pitifully in protest against the thick rope around its fat neck. Screaming – a hoarse, high-pitched animal screaming – emanated from the flaring unclean snout. As sinewy accustomed arms pulled it, the creature looked up at me with wide pleading eyes.
Before today, I have never seen an animal killed. I remember when I used to have four lively finches that danced about a cylindrical iron cage near my bed. One day I came home to find one sulking quietly at the bottom of the cage as the others continued about their jerky, bird-like lives. I kept an eye on it all evening and later that night it began to sing stridently, flapping its wings with all its might. The volume became piercing and feathers fluttered all about as I watched, along with the three other birds whose attention had turned to the sudden spectacle. For a moment I assumed the bird had recovered, yet after a few seconds of intense desire for life it wavered. I watched in slow motion as the tiny fighting body was drained. A burst of vigor was followed by a slow expiration of life and it lowered itself to the floor. I remember thinking it was strange the way the other birds’ previous apathy had changed from interest to general concern. The little dead body surrounded by its three companions appeared so human-like I was touched. Everything was so silent.
Today was not silent. The pig was thrown onto its back. I watched as its hooves were tied together. I briefly looked away as my friend took a sharp rock and struck it against the pig’s face so that it would open its grimy mouth to rope that would restrict its shrieking. I wasn’t sure if I could go through with understanding such a gruesome sight. What’s more, I was sure I couldn’t watch. (The “me” four months ago couldn’t have stomached sheer dialogue on the topic.) Yet I stayed. I sat a foot from the gaping mouth and pitiful heaving flesh. My friend sat atop the giant hairy body and shoved the snout downward with one hand and the knife upward with the other. The dull blade of the knife plummeted into its obese neck and then with a quick slice, it cut vertically along the outer wound. Blood squirted from the bucking animal as its screams escalated into shrieks of pain and shock. It continued to heave and its muscles spasmed as women held bowls beneath the draining animal to collect the pools of blood that continued to pour even after it had passed away.
My roommate, a previous vegetarian and self-proclaimed animal lover, bee-lined for the side of the road and took post to cry. My friend, a fellow Peace Corps volunteer who lives in Mosteiros, took the masculine approach and got photos from all angles. I sat in shocked silence, feeling repulsed by the bloody mess, but unable to tear my eyes away. Women collecting the blood laughed at our reactions, their hands covered in the syrupy deep redness of life that had poured from a living thing. Tiny children stood calmly along the sides of the cornfield, probably more interested in the strange Americans’ disgust than from the mundane ritual of killing dinner.
In seeing death approached so non-emotionally, I have been thinking a lot about living. There is a stark contrast between the peaceful sadness of the natural expiration of life with the horrendous atrocity with which it can be ripped away; between the tranquil death of my bird and the appalling murder of a swine. What I have discovered is that I do not know so much about life – or of death for that matter. But what I do understand is that there is a difference. And though we all live a life, and though we are all to die, the ways in which we do both will vary in a strange and inexplicable combination between that which is out of our control (death) and that which we can grasp whole-heartedly in the fleeting love affair that is life.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
…The fuzzy soft carpet of the States and the hard gritty concrete of my home in Ponta Verde…The McFlurry from the drive through and the pounding of corn into flour…The secured padded comfort of the single-child life and the 15-child anonymity of a two-bedroom existence…The plush enveloping softness of laying on a sofa and the rigid upright discomfort of wooden chairs…The desk work of America my Cape Verdean friend refers to as “working with a pen” and the heavy sacks of kaska piled high upon strained backs…The rigid personal space of my relationships back home and sitting in the lap of my female friends as they casually wrap their arms around me, intertwine our fingers and giggle about the absurdity of men behind the cultural yet impenetrable sheet that keeps men and women separate…The intense beeping of my alarm clock and the coarse prideful crow of the rooster up the street…The sweet, freeing escape of the open road in my Jeep and the awkward effort of clomping down the uneven incline of cobblestone paths…Fresh garden salads piled with crisp, clean greens and the monotony of corn, corn, corn…The way in which Americans value politeness over truth and the shocking gut-wrenching honesty of people in Ponta Verde…The beauty and worshipful wonder of washing machines/dishwashers/vacuums/faucets/blenders/garbage disposals and the cracked bleeding knuckles of my hands…The packaged, sanitized, diluted, unawareness of where food comes from and the living, bleeding, shrieking knowledge of what I am about to consume…The enormous malls and grocery stores that exist to accommodate all desires and the tiny convenience stores that shelve just rice and soap, the Chinese lojas that display only a handful of options in terms of clothes…The beautiful crashing waves of the California coast and the unreachable yet equally stunning panorama of ocean spread before me and left untouched on this volcano of an island…The cuddly warmth of my princess of a dog back home and the terror that the barking of dogs here brings out in me…The clean accommodating existence of life in America and the earthy, natural rawness of living in Africa…
I could go on…and on…and on…I love and crave my life back home and simultaneously resent it in contrast to the difficulties in people’s lives here.
I feel frustration about social norms and ignorance in Cape Verde but also love and admire it for all it has taught me.
I feel frustration about social norms and ignorance in America but also love and appreciate it for all it has given me.
After only four and a half months of living here, my two worlds are beginning to merge and I am left with a mixture of what is true and what imagination and memory has exaggerated. Did an In-N-Out hamburger really taste that good? Were movie theaters something to do only when you had run out of more exciting options? Is eating corn 3 times a day really that bad? Isn’t sitting on the side of the road in the breeze and doing absolutely nothing kind of nice?
In and out flows the tide of my thoughts. The relativity of life ebbs and flows like the changing nature of the moon that looms above me each morning on my dark early run. When the soft glowing orb is pregnant with light I rejoice in sight. When it is lacking, I stumble with a blinding unsure gait that comes along with the unfamiliarity of darkness. With time, I am sure the path before me will become familiar and I will be able to rely on myself and what I know – and not upon the changing patterns of astrological whims.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Both the end of the wet season and the conclusion of November are approaching. The surrounding fields of lush green corn are drying up and there is a crisp echoing as the parched stalks sway vulnerably in the arid wind. I watch from my porch as dozens of spindly legs shuffle down the road beneath top-heavy bundles of seca padja (dry corn stalks) they carry on top of their heads. I find myself wondering how they can see the road in front of them. Most of the wavering limbs belong to children as thin as pencils. They stumble under their loads as the fall winds attempt to blow them away in strong gusts. The planting season is over; the period of cultivation has ended; the fruits of labor die away as weeping fields bow to the ground in a slow surrender. The people here trade in the overflowing abundance of freshly cultivated vegetables and fruits for canned sustenance. As bright flowers and green foliage shrivels and dies away Ponta Verde is no longer the Point Green that its name boasts…
And so the honeymoon period with this place is over and I can take off the rose colored glasses as I complete the first sixth of the 27-month Peace Corps service. The surface of this new world is falling away and the wondrous dreamland of abundance is kneeling down in defeat as it reveals the true earthy harshness of reality. Like a new relationship, the beginning attempts to impress and lure have ended and I am now able to truly get to know my community – to see beneath the layers of façade that were so convincingly demonstrated in the beginning. The people, like the terra (land), are revealing themselves – not just their incredible strengths, but their weaknesses and vulnerabilities. And I love them more for it. In perceiving their sadness, I can more accurately understand their needs. In seeing their worries, I can more clearly visualize their dreams.
And dreams, resilient despite the changing of the seasons, are the only things that do not die away.
Keep thou thy dreams-
The tissue of all wings
Is woven first of them;
From dreams are made
The precious and imperishable things,
Whose loveliness lives on and does not fade.
--Shead
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I made visits today, as I often do in order to get to know the people of this tiny community. The houses are so dispersed and hidden within the ribeiras (washed out riverbeds) and fields that I often begin my journey by simply walking aimlessly along the road. One foot in front of the other never disappoints – within a few steps I am called at and invited in to txiga (visit). Today led me to the house of an old man who I run into on the road every morning on the way to school. He is rather tall and old, and he walks slowly without pressa (hurry). Cane, step, cane, careful step, like so. His eyes are old yet kind. I discovered today that he is ninety years old, and has children living in America, Brazil and Portugal. He talks to me at length about Abraham Lincoln and of the history of Cabo Verde as he folds pieces of religious text into barkos (paper boats). I watch in awe as he weaves intricate stories out of the simplicity of Kriolu and calmly folds indecipherable Portuguese words peppered with “Jesus” into tiny, lifelike boats.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Weeks ago, when my room mate and I first arrived in Ponta Verde, I remember we sat on the front step of our house and discussed the multitude of possibilities that were to occur during our stay in this small area. We approached the topic and concluded that people, no doubt, would be born. That people would get married. That we would watch in disbelief as little children of two would grow to children of four or five. And that people of eighty or ninety would begin to feel the tug at the end of their lives and pass away from this earth just as surely as they had once arrived, so many years before.
Being aware of the cycle of life is one aspect in which this culture does not hide. I watch, rather calmly now, as animals are slaughtered, or as I wave to a good friend passing by in the bed of a truck, casually sitting atop a dead cow. When babies cry, women do not get up and breastfeed in privacy. Many a time, they continue their conversation with me, whip out a shockingly enormous nipple, attach their infant to the source and continue to go about this or that topic in earnest. Likewise, the morbidity that surrounds death in America is smoothed over with an air of familiarity and acceptance.
Well, the cycle of life is continuing its steady yet astounding gait along the cobblestone paths of Ponta Verde. My good friend who works in the Jardim had her long-awaited baby today – a tiny, light-skinned little boy with bright pink flower petals for a mouth and a tuft of dark hair. Along with tradition, he will not have a name until his godmother gives him the formal identity that he will use for school and church. The name with which he will be called within the house will come with time, as his personality inspires a nickname that his friends and family will know him by. Until then, he is a tiny bundle that is accepted into this world as casually and expectedly as any other living being.
After a visit to spia (look at) my friend’s newborn child, I returned to the house and later that night answered a knock on my door. The grandmother of my roommate’s student was dying. We walked to her house along with a group of older neighbors in the dark. It was a new moon so the light normally granted for such a journey was nonexistent, making the walk slow and tedious as we made our way up the narrow winding path to the two-bedroom house. Once we arrived, dozens of people were standing in the rua (road) speaking lowly and the rest were looking in through the tiny window.
The old woman was a pile of respiring bones beneath a thin white sheet. Her jawbones were sunken in as the candle was raised to her face and neighbors stood coaxing her to drink a broth. Her eight grandchildren were sitting in wooden chairs in the candlelight and we shook hands with each of them. We were invited to sit and I was shocked at how the attention turned from the dying woman to us. “Tudo bom?” a woman with the candle asked with a heavy pat on the back. Yea, sure, everything’s great, I thought, staring the advancing steps of death in the face. A man (I’m assuming the woman’s son) arrived from the villa and the moment he saw his mother he began wailing. The howling sounds of his grief were mixed with the giggles of children playing games obliviously in circles on the floor. So it is in Ponta Verde that the heaviest of life’s realities is mixed with the mundane happenings of everyday life.
And so first predictions of living here were confirmed today - a newborn infant took in his first gulps of air as an aging woman strained to inhale the ending moments of her life. And so existence continues all around. Children will chase each other around a dying body, men will get up in the darkness and make their way to the fields, women will balance enormous buckets of water on their heads, the absurdity of a donkey’s call will continue to force me to laugh, and as I open the front door for my morning run, the web of a very persistent spider will greet me, as it always does. I will walk down the road past cows, cloth bag in hand, on my way to buy freshly baked bread. I will eat it. I will go to school. And life will go on.
I was once born, and I will one day die. For now, I am a girl who grew up in Orange County, awaking to vida (life) each day on a tiny volcanic island off the African coast. In living here, I am amazed at the ways in which I am both nearing death and running from it with each breath. It’s strange the way the passage of time is not necessarily consistent with understanding. When I was young I felt old, yet trapped in a candid body. Now I am childlike despite an aging exterior, and fine lines frame the brilliance of youthful eyes.
