A mixture

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

I think at some point here my life retired and regressed, and is now in a backward stage of motion. Whatever I possessed and considered to be the slow yet sure accumulation of wisdom - the fragile threads of life that hold together common thought and an overall panorama of being - is now narrowing into a slender wedge of sky carved out of a previously inexhaustible expanse of freedom. For whatever reason, I have taken to juvenile traits that I didn’t dare attempt even during my infantile years when I was too busy trying to be an adult to acquiesce to adolescent behavior. The explanations for this are out there somewhere, tiny petals of reason that dance about in shadowy gusts of winds and evade my willful grasp…

For now, I am left wondering why my blood quickens and tiny sparks of exhilaration pulse through my body during the monotonous moments of day. The barren plateau of afternoon, when cobblestone streets are silent and hens are left alone to explore beneath benches and children’s deserted toys, a giddiness arises beneath layers of boredom, lethargy or unease. At times like these, laughter bubbles up from a fountain and I find myself fashioning my hair in a sideways ‘80s ponytail, hiking up the legs of my jeans and jump roping while singing Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean is not my lover” from my short wave radio (yes, I have pictures).

I take risks, too. Risks I don’t think I would ever have taken in the cushiony slumber of the States. Like when I was in a cove on the beach the other night, dancing in the waves and sprinting above the reflection of moonlight in the sand. I taunted the ocean, ran boldly into frothy whiteness where the crashing power of the sea connects firmly with the steadfast strength of land. I shrieked and sang and raced and played along the shadows and illumination that only night provides, everything bathed in a blanket of black clasped together with metallic white - the shrouded sky, the glitter of stars, the churning sea, and the light in my eyes.

Pace has been slowed, as well. My sense of awe increases when faced with the sheer authority of this rock in the middle of the ocean. Walking along the foreboding mountain of gray sand, my feet sank into the steep descent of Cha das Calderas, a community where people who have defied government orders live within the crater of Fogo’s active volcano. The landscape is daunting – dunes of ash spread out like a Dali painting – a bit twisted but nonetheless haunting in its beauty and stillness. I stared at my outstretched fingers, once again childlike, as my friend and I dropped to the ground to feel the warmth of magma radiating from cracks of volcanic rock. We crouched low to the surface as the sun set and admired as squiggly waves of heat swarmed like flies from the earth and dissipated into a darkening sky.

I find myself juggling an intense desire to once again climb trees like I did in Costa Rica; sail on a boat with only an hour’s darkness in the north of Sweden; stroll through the icy frost of Kyoto’s Japanese gardens; go off-roading in my Jeep through the cracked ravines of Palm Desert; dance in the waterfalls of Monteverde’s cloud forest reserve; roast marshmallows by campfire on the beach of San Onofre; play hide-and-go-seek with orphans I lived with in Brazil; drink a pint in an Oxford pub; white water raft down a river in Northern California; swim with manatees in the lazy swamps of Florida with my childhood friend who has since passed away; sit on a bench with my travel buddy and admire the Alps of Switzerland; get lost in the canals and eat bad spaghetti in Venice; build houses with volunteers in Mexico; collect hermit crabs beneath a hammock near the red and white striped lighthouse on Abaco Island; collect hemp bracelets and run for my life from a scary tattoo artist in the bohemian beach town of Canoa Quebrada; eat waffles from a vending machine in Belgium just to say I’d eaten them there; visit the Ann Frank house and be shocked by pornographic postcards in the “coffee shops” of Amsterdam; take a tip from the locals and sneak in through the back exit of the Louvre in Paris; hike to castles tucked into the mist and green cliffs of southern Germany; pound corn into a fine flour to make cous cous; stand in front of sixty beady eyes and prompt Cape Verdean teenagers to form their first English words; take a morning run in the dark and watch the longest trail of a shooting star I have ever seen disappear from my sight as the sun begins to flood light over the crater of the volcano behind my house … In this way I have regressed. I am slowly sinking back into the depths of my mind to live there, and crouch like a guest in the corners of pleasant memories.

The truth is that I don’t know how to end this journal entry. Possibly because I have been describing what has already happened in my life and am attempting to conclude that which has not yet matured, fully blossomed, or existed in full. So I will leave these words and the significance to be derived in whatever ways are favorable to the reader (if you have, indeed, read this far). The novel of my life has not ended; in fact, another section has just begun. But for now, the chapter has reached its final page and will remain open only in the sense that it may be relived through the eyes of someone who can relate.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

As I was walking home from work a friend of mine coaxed me into the shaded darkness of her home and proudly announced the birth of a young woman’s baby.
“Oh! You are already back from the hospital?” I asked naively in Kriolu.
“The hospital?” The woman laughed as her giant slanted eyes opened wide and her missing teeth smiled back at me in an amused grin. “She had the baby right here on the floor! I delivered it!”
“You delivered it yourself!?” I asked, again naively.
“Claro! (clearly)” she said. “You just catch the baby, cut the birth cord, wash him off and set him on the bed.”
Well, of course, I thought. Simple as that. It turns out this woman who had delivered the baby has five children. She birthed each of them on her own.
“You just crouch down like this,” she explained, crouching to the floor in what apparently was a birthing position. “Then you put your hands out, push real hard and catch ‘em!”
“Doesn’t it hurt??” I exclaimed in genuine horror (I happen to see birth as the most miraculous thing a woman is capable of, but all miracles aside - I would never wish the excruciating pain upon myself. I’ll make a good aunt one day).
“No, it doesn’t hurt much,” she stated, waving the comment away, spacing her feet firmly apart on the floor and placing her hands indignantly on her hips in pride. “Doesn’t hurt at all.”
Well … claro.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

The class summary today was the verb “to live.” I asked my students who had family living on other countries.

They all raised their hands.


Sunday, January 28, 2007

The one thing I had heard about Cape Verde after I got my Peace Corps invitation in the mail was that the country is of transient nature. Since there is a lack of jobs on the island of Fogo, many fathers, sons, mothers and children leave their country of natural birth and seek futures in other countries like Portugal, Brazil and America. The money they make there they send to their families back home. Others go to places like America in order to receive education and still others go to reunite with loved ones. I believe this fact alone affects more aspects of life here in Ponta Verde than any other factor.

I knew all this even before I stepped on the plane to come to Cape Verde, but what I did not know was that this fact would affect me so deeply. Since I have arrived (which was about five months ago) a good number of my community members have left for America. One was a young man with a family, who left to work in Boston for three years. Another is one of my roommate’s students, who will go to live with the mother she has been separated from since she was a small child. The fact that my male friend has a five year old daughter who has not seen her mother since birth (because she moved to the U.S. five years ago) is something that has always hit me hard – the closeness of the families here is separated my miles of distance. I have been able to relate on some level, since I left my family and friends behind seven months ago in order to live in another country away from home; yet, I recognize that leaving your life on your own free will as a result of options is entirely different than being forced to leave for a lack thereof.

Today one of the best friends I have in the community told me she will be leaving to live in America by the end of February. She is someone I feel I can be myself with – a person who regularly invites me over to play Cape Verdean music, dance and write down the lyrics for me to understand. She is always the life of the party, the person who is most open and willing to put herself out in front of people and be unique without trying. In a community where I was desperately searching for somewhere to fit in, she provided that space for me. When she told me she was leaving, my eyes focused on a group of white pigeons that landed and spread out behind her in the quintal. Some were clustered together, others flew away. The unity and separateness of the moment compelled me and despite my happiness for her and her future, I had to look away through a vision of tears.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

My ten and four-year-old next door neighbors came over today - as they do every day – and watched the uncharacteristic lightning storm that has been raging outside my house for the past couple of hours. As the wind picked up and shadows chased the sun beyond the horizon of sight, the two tiny girls sat in my lap as we watched the bolts create fissures of light in the darkening sky. The little one braided the bangs of my hair and the tiny muscular ten-year-old giggled excitedly with each powerful flash. We sat holding hands and the closeness reminded me that even so far from my place I can be home.

Monday, February 5, 2007

Despite the intense process of learning and adjustment over the last seven months, things have been generally calm. In fact, at moments I feel that I am standing within the hourglass of my life; in the lower half, where the fine particles of measurement gently pour atop my head in a consistent and steady rush. It flows quickly, yet in a manner in which I find it difficult to keep track of things. When I attempt to look above to glance at time left, it glides in a glittering waterfall of light that blinds me to its perception. In this way I have been blissfully unaware of the time that passes. I close my eyes in the stretch of night that separates February 5th from February 4th and it all begins again. The monotony has been a clear cushion of comfort.

Today I was jolted from that glass case and the steady intake of sand began to empty itself upon me with a weighted force. A few people back home have been asking what I’m up to (and I know there are Peace Corps applicants that stumble across these blogs from time to time) so for those interested in my weekly schedule it appears as follows:

Sunday:
5:00 a.m. – morning run
7:00-11:00 a.m. – wash clothes (yes, it takes that long … kiss your washing machine for me)
12:00-4:00 p.m. prepare lesson plans and make visits in community
4:30-6:30 p.m. – go to church and make community announcements
7:00-9:00 p.m. – finish lesson planning and prepare for going to the city Monday

Monday:
5:00 a.m. – morning run
7:00-11:00 a.m. – teach 7th grade English
11:30 a.m. – arrive in vila (city) use internet, check post office for mail, go to the market, buy groceries, get new phone card, pay bills, go to the bank, lunch, etc.
2:30 p.m. – coordination meeting with the English department at the liçeo (high school)
5:00 p.m. – arrive home in Ponta Verde. Make dinner, lesson plan, etc.

Tuesday:
5:00 a.m. – morning run
7:00-11:00 a.m. – teach
12:00 p.m. – make lunch, community visits
4:30 p.m. – weekly community meeting with the church
5:00 p.m. – make dinner, lesson plan, etc.

Wednesday:
5:00 a.m. – morning run
7:00 a.m. – shower
7:45 a.m. – English private tutoring
8:00 a.m.-12:00 p.m. – volunteer at the local kindergarten
1:00 p.m. – make lunch
2:00-4:00 p.m. – community visits
5:00 p.m. – make dinner, lesson plan, etc.

Thursday:
5:00 a.m. – morning run
7:00-11:00 a.m. – teach 7th grade English
12:00 p.m. – make lunch, community visits
4:00 p.m. – teach 6th grade classes to prepare them for 7th grade English
6:00 p.m. – make dinner, lesson plan, etc.

Friday:
5:00 a.m. – morning run
7:00-11:00 a.m. – teach 7th grade English
12:00 p.m. – make lunch, community visits
5:00 p.m.-? – whatever I want!

Saturday:
8:00 a.m.-2:00 p.m. – meet students and hold a soccer game at a neighboring field
2:00-whatever time – visit the houses of students
Free time! (which usually means a bottle of wine and sitting on the roof of my house with my roommate, looking at the stars)

In addition to this I guess I am the new editor of the Peace Corps Newsletter, which happened last minute, and along with the volunteers on my island (we call ourselves Team Fogo) I am preparing an island-wide essay contest in order to commemorate Women’s Day. The winning essays will be broadcasted on Radio Mosteiros. There is a new sala de informatica (a computer room) that was just opened in Ponta Verde and I will begin to work and teach classes there as well. In the upcoming weeks I will begin teaching English classes for adults who are interested. And the sand just keeps emptying into the lower half of the glass case.

Tuesday, February 6, 2007

“Islands lost
in the midst of the sea
forgotten
in an angle of the world
-where the waves
cradle
abuse
embrace…”

~Jorge Barbosa, poet of CV


Today is seven months in Cape Verde.


Wednesday, February 7, 2007

There is a woman who has become a very close friend of mine. She is well known in the community for her energy, her clear vision, her sense of humor and her two long black braids. She loves to jump up and move to the traditional fundo (deep) dances of Fogo and has never had children. I’ve been told that she’s visited America three times in her life. Along the way she picked up such phrases as “sit down!” and “come here!” which she uses often in my presence. She is quite a character and is known for a lot of things. But manly she is known because she is 99 years, three months and 17 days old.

I paid my near century-old friend a visit yesterday and she greeted me with a genuine toothless grin and a giant embrace. As I sat next to her in a small room that she shares with the 14 other people who live in the house, she grabbed my keys that are attached to a stretchy hair band so I can wrap it around my wrist and not lose them, as I often tend to do. She told me she would love to take those keys and walk herself down to my house and pay me a visit whenever she’d like, but her house is high up the crater of the volcano, and not the kind of hike a one-hundred year-old body can withstand. As I sat in the room with the family she lived with, I looked around at the beginnings and endings of life in people. The mother of the children who lived there is painfully thin yet with an inner strength that shines through her eyes. She sat nursing her one-year-old and playing with him, tickling him, as her much older 27-year-old son playfully argued that men in Cape Verde really can wash their own clothes and cook (I told him that he may wash mine any time he wished). The mother’s beautiful daughters were about the room (one of them is my student). They have calm demeanors and almond eyes.

I ate lunch with them, played, laughed and shelled beans, but I was really there to see this woman who was so young despite her age. She showed me a picture of her husband, a man she had married in the dawn of her life, but who had passed away in her eighties, nearly twenty years ago. I wondered at how someone that age has withstood the loss of each and every person born before her. Most of all, I just joked with her and held her hand as we talked. We were both glad for the company. Before I left she slipped a ring onto my pinky finger. It is silver and delicate with a thin black stone. It is over 90 years old, just like her. “Uma kuza para abo de lembra de mi,” she said (one thing for you to remember me by). I always will.