Bits and Pieces

May 14, 2007

The changing of spells here – between the short downpours of the rainy season and the long, drawn-out drought of the dry season – is like the brutal shifting of a mood. There is a feeling in the air that hangs thick and heavy. It weighs upon the shoulders like overbearing hands of heat and does not shake easily. In the upcoming months pregnant clouds will appear in the sky like giant eggs and crack open. The yolks of rain will pour heavily upon this sizzling pan of an island. But for now, there is a haze that covers the mystical view of Brava and whips dirt, animal feces and dry land up into swirls that dance furiously across the brutal landscape. Fat, black flies stumble drunkenly through the thick blanket of heat, copulate, buzz and fall with a feverish pitch that makes my skin crawl. Mosquitoes, newly hatched and thirsting for blood, penetrate writhing flesh and gulp down the syrupy sustenance. Droves of ants attack with fervor and carry out loads of stale crumbs with admirable force. Shade is hard to come by and the rays from the sun sear both skin and spirit. Everything living grasps tightly to the dry shell of life.

My island is a crazed traveler on hands and knees, parched and desperate in the midst of a scorching desert. This time of year the volcanic rock of Fogo throbs like a tormented heart about to burst. In the endless sweat of night I dream, with all the miraculous enchantment of a mirage, of the torrents of rain (like steadfast, incoming troops) that will shower down upon the eager, aching earth and relieve the land of its parched, acidic state.

May 15, 2007

(Specifically) To Women of Valor…

I went to a Domestic Violence polestra (information session) today at the school I work at. A woman fluent in English, well educated, and who has lived a majority of her life in the northern island city of Mindelo led the polestra as a part of the organization she works with in bila. It was intended to educate and enlighten the women of Ponta Verde about their rights and equality as women. My community is well-known for its lack of gender equality and there are school officials, outside resources (such as Peace Corps) and OMCV (a women’s organization) that all seem to be making efforts to help my village’s women take control of their lives and stand on their own. After a series of unfortunate events I have witnessed in the lives of my female friends here, it is more than refreshing and nothing short of inspiring to see the women here be taught by other Cape Verdean women who are self-employed, independent, respected, and able to leave the house without the permission of a jealous boyfriend or controlling husband.

(**Side note: Not all men here are jealous or controlling, but I have discovered that the “machismo” in Fogo society allows for a majority of men to take advantage of women they are in relationships with. As an example – unfortunately not a particularly rare occurrence – two weeks ago a woman and mother of eight who lives up the crater from my house was stabbed to death by her husband for attending a party without his consent.)

What was interesting about the polestra – besides the fact that my counterpart’s three-year-old raced back and forth across the panel of speakers and then proceeded to pee on the raised platform – was that the attendance was made up entirely of women. As the speakers discussed the need for the “development of women’s integration within the community of Ponta Verde,” the physical and psychological effects of domestic violence, education needed within the home and school, social consequences of abuse, etc., only women looked on. Not one man besides the three teachers who were present attended the meeting that was intended for “parents of students” at the school. I thought it was interesting to note and it was the supporting evidence behind what was discussed during the meeting.

“Women have to be alert,” the guest speaker stated firmly to the crowd of scarves, gold earrings and curlers. The woman speaking was well dressed, with a pressed cotton blouse, tactful earrings, well-manicured hands, a designer watch, trendy thick-framed glasses and high heels. I kept looking at her, and then at the crowd of women, my neighbors, whom I have come to respect deeply for their work ethic, strong opinions and strength.

I observed their muscular builds, their worn faces, the dirt beneath their fingernails, and that distant look you can find as escape in all of their eyes…

The woman on the platform looked entirely different, like a woman of the future, a future in which women were single and had professions, owned their own homes, drove cars, and wore designer pants. As I watched the woman ask, “Is there a husband in the world more important than a child?” on the topic of sexual, physical and emotional abuse, I realized how important it was for the women I care about to hear from another woman that it was wrong to allow abuse. I looked at the faces of the women I know well in the crowd, and I thought of all the opportunities I have had that they never did. I looked at my next-door neighbor who is thirty with six children, who has never gone to school a day in her life. I looked at my student’s mother who is large-and-in-charge, outspoken and would probably make an excellent businesswoman. I looked at my friend’s mother, whose three children and partner are leaving her behind in Cape Verde to pursue a life in America (they were never married and she is therefore ineligible to go as well). I looked and looked and I thought, all the strength, intelligence and potential in the world is wasted in a woman’s life without these three things:

-economic independence
-education
-social respect/equality (women viewed as human beings instead of mothers, wives)

(my roommate has insisted that I read Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own)

I urge the women reading this who are living in a reality that provides these three things to fully appreciate and develop the women that you are meant to be. There is no glass ceiling that cannot be penetrated in the world, yet in the States I am proud to believe that it has already been shattered for us. The sky is, therefore, our birthright and irrefutable purpose. As for here, the women are just beginning to tentatively grasp the limits with which they are constrained and are only now beginning to strategize a way to break through. I envision them as caged birds, quickly gnawing away at the confines of life and soon to break free into the luminous freedom of a boundless world. It’s a long, famished road ahead, but it is one of valor…

…its destination is freedom.

May 18, 2007

There is so much I will never know or understand about this place I temporarily call home. Intricately intertwined relationships and blood – both bad and binding – is woven so tightly and beneath so many layers that will forever remain unknown in my mind. As I sat with a friend on my porch one evening, we watched and guessed at which of the men walking up the street were drunk (unfortunately, many are at that time of night). One was swaying up the street, but before I guessed my friend told me he was not drunk, but had been injured in the head from a fight and had never fully recovered mentally. It was the father of my good friend who has been my handy man around the house. I never knew who his father was, but watched this man as he made his way up the hill. My friend explained that this man used to be a well-known violinist in the area, and often played Mourna, music popular among more traditional Cape Verdean society. Yet he began to have a drinking problem and one day got in a fight with the husband of my friend, who picked up a brick from a house, and hit this man in the head. He was sent to Portugal for an operation but never fully recovered. Now I understand why the wives of both these men never have gotten along. In church, I often notice the tension between the two women and never knew why. Another mystery solved. I’m sure there are many more I will never know.

May 19, 2007

I left the house, together with my roommate, around 9 o’clock at night, hoping to get a little fresh air and search for an open loja (store) where we could buy a bottle of wine and relax on our rooftop. Along the way down the road, I noticed a neighbor of ours with a large cow in the road in front of their house. In the darkness, its dark bloated frame was highlighted by the lamps set out to allow for the task at hand. Immediately, I knew what we had happened upon and asked if I could help with the killing of the female cow. People walking by, to nowhere in particular, stopped and stood around as though there was nothing more important going on, and well, this would do. They stuck their hands in their pockets and viewed the spectacle, their heads hanging low and their eyes barely visible beneath tattered baseballs cap worn thin and bleached from work in the scorched fields.

I immediately recognized the man who was to kill the cow, and since his name has escaped me, I call him the Cow Man. He sharpened the blade of his knife, tied the hooves of the heavy animal together with a thick rope, and toppled her sideways onto the cobblestone. It fell into a surprised, yet already surrendered heap of defeat. As the blade was raised to its throat, it let out heavy gasps – her eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and tongue hanging large and pink from her mouth – but she did not put up much of a fight. One thing I have learned from observing the killing of cows is that their deaths are silent in comparison to the writhing, fighting, squealing slaughter of a pig.

I watched as a young girl rolled up her black sleeve (the family is in mourning for a relative and they are each to wear black every day for a period of six months) as she set a large metal basin at the throat of the incision and caught the thick red blood. As the cow lay dying, the Cow Man sliced the animal’s legs to test whether or not she was still alive, and once she was gone, men began slicing her down the middle and skinning the hide from her inner flesh. There is an old man up the road who will use the skin to make drums for corn-pounding festas in the future. Everything taken from the cow, including the head and blood, will be used. This being one of the many times I have witnessed the killing of an animal here, I am beginning to see it all in a surprisingly non-emotional light. This cow was born to be killed for food. The family that owns this cow will sell the meat, which will be one of the main sources of their income this year. It all begins to make perfect sense, and I will never look at the meat section of the supermarket the same way again. From now on I will know where my meat comes from.

The main reason I felt the need to explain this scenario was to share a bit of how random and unexpected my experiences here are. I left the house to buy a bottle of wine and ended up assisting in the killing of a cow. This is a long shot, but I doubt a drive to the market in the States would ever lead me to that scenario…? I made arrangements with the Cow Man to allow me to assist one more killing and before this summer, I will have killed a cow on my own. Not for the enjoyment, but for the understanding of a part of life that I would have never understood otherwise. I want to be more than an observer here – I want to live this life. I never did get that bottle of wine. I think I myself have surrendered to go where life takes me from now on. It will no doubt take me where I least expect, but I’m willing to go there.

May 20, 2007

Here is a brief update on the side projects (outside of teaching) I have been working on during my service here.

-Women’s Futebol Team: Yesterday my roommate and I held a meeting for the interested young women in our community (a majority of whom we are close friends with) ages 16-26 to form a women’s soccer team in Ponta Verde. We will start practice next Thursday. It may not sound like much, but these girls hardly ever leave the house and there is nothing to do in the community, so it is essential for the strength and growth of women’s involvement in the community to just get them out and interacting with one another.

-Sala de Informática: I am working on translating a funding proposal from Portuguese into English to search for American sources that may assist in donating to the construction of a computer lab/information room for the youth of Ponta Verde to have Internet access and computer classes. A lot of people my age and older don’t even have a fourth grade education, so this allows for a process of learning, and a connection to the outside world, which is difficult to connect with from an obscure island in the middle of the Atlantic.

-The World Map Project: is in the works, which involves painting a map of the world on a visible wall somewhere in the community. The map is broken into a graph and members of the community are able to paint a portion of it and put the thing together to give them an idea of how big the world is and where the countries they hear about are located. I think it helps to see it laid out in order to inspire those who are passionate about travel or looking abroad for work, seeing where their family members are living, etc.

-Role Model: A good friend of mine has no real education to speak of, but she is model material – tall, slender, gorgeous, has a good head on her shoulders, is courageous, forward-thinking, not satisfied with simply existing, you name it. Here she is stuck in the house and has nothing really to look forward to. This may be an absolute long-shot, but if there is a way I can put my modeling connections to use, I’m sending the agencies her picture and story, and see if I can get her the heck out of here.

-PC Newsletter: I’m enjoying editing the Peace Corps publication that helps volunteers exchange information among the islands and let each other in on experiences, projects, funding sources, best-learned practices, opinions, interviews, creative expressions, etc.

Think that’s about it for now.