Terra

June 26, 2007

In Cape Verde, the word “terra” means a lot. “Nha terra” literally means “my land.” People often express pride for their country by proclaiming that Cabo Verde is their terra. It’s a word that can mean dirt, but is also a word that holds a much more highly regarded connotation – home. Here, in an agricultural community, land is everything. Despite the fact that Cape Verde’s 9-month drought every year only allows for Cape Verdeans to produce 20% of the food they live off of (the other 80% is received through international aid) the rocky hillside terrain is both a blessing and a burden. It produces cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, peppers, beans, squash, and most importantly, corn, which is dried and stored in barrels to last throughout the dry season. Terra is about survival, but despite its short-lived season of harvest, the burden of survival is more dictated by its longer lasting hardships. This time of year, at its peak of dryness just before the first fat drops of the rainy season quench the thirst of this devastated land, whirlwinds of dust fill the air and cover the lives of those who live here in a layer of muted brown.

To make matters a bit dustier, there has been quite a bit of construction going on around my house - a crude, antiquated process that amounts to old men with creaking joints who feebly make their way to my house each early morning to shovel dirt, haul rocks and make cement in order to fulfill the inexhaustible demands of my visiting Cape Verdean-American landlord. The result of their efforts is that I sweep my bedroom about three times a day; each time a layer of terra (dirt) fills the dustpan. During the dry season, nothing ever seems to get clean. “So terra!” (just dirt/land!) I have more than once overheard exasperated Cape Veredans gasp as they attack the layer of dirt invading their homes like a persistent and unwanted visitor.

My home in California, although a desert, didn’t have dirt like this. (Yes…the warm baths, carpeted flooring, dishwashers and wash machines dance hygienically around in my head at night. Here, you wouldn’t imagine thinking dirty thoughts – you think clean ones). I have about a year of Cape Verde behind me, 34 days until I board the TACV flight that will take me to Los Angeles. There have been countless Cape Verdean-Americans visiting Fogo for the summer, many of them first-generation Americans whose parents have convinced them to visit the “old land” and get in touch with their roots. Most arrive in designer jeans and shades, with thick Boston accents and attitude. Without exception, those visiting for the first time express to me the desire to return to the States immediately. One girl, in the back of a rickety car ride from bila claimed her return flight was originally in September, but that after a week here she changed her ticket to leave next week. As she was dropped off at her stop, she said goodbye and as the car drove away shouted, with a hip jutted to the side and acrylic finger pointed affirmatively in the air, “Next week, I’m OUT this bitch!” It seemed fitting that her image was drowned out in a cloud of dust behind the retreating vehicle.

I can see why these fresh American eyes so easily close to this dusty land. At first glance from a descending plane, Fogo, with half of the island covered in black molten lava that drops in sharp cliffs straight into a rough ocean, does not even appear livable. A fellow PCV on my island often makes the sarcastic comment that had the Portuguese colonists who originally brought African slaves here not performed this horrendous task, no one would have ever chosen to live here on their own free will – the resources and conditions are simply do not exist to sustain the population. A history of famine and drought further supports the difficulties of living on the volcanic soil of Cape Verde. With its rough winds, long dry season, violent surf and lack of water sources, it is no doubt why writers often refer to this country as “the forgotten islands.” A well-known creation myth states that 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. Or so the saying goes…

But I love this land. I love the people who have discovered ways to cope with the love affair they have for a place that has created such a need for survival. I admire the creativity with which corn is pounded at a feverish pace, fueled by the beating of drums, clapping of calloused hands and waving of flags that proclaim pride. I consistently see the resilience and resourcefulness of even the children here, who often come to my house asking for water bottles, empty cardboard boxes that family members have mailed me, vegetable skins and fruit peels to give to their animals – it all goes to necessary use, whereas I would have just thrown them away. The culture here is a blend of the historical events of the past and the more recent commercial endeavors of other countries. Portugal, Africa, Brazil, America, from so far away bits of each land has found its way to Cape Verde.

And so, I will continue to keep all this in mind as I make a jolting cultural transition from my dusty village to the extravagance of the Las Vegas strip. That I have the ability to experience such different lives touches me. There are many people here who will never see the other side of this tiny island. I am afforded the opportunity to jet set across the world – what a powerful thing. My friend from the States recently asked me to bring him sand from the island of Cape Verde. It is something he asks of his friends when they return from journeys abroad. He puts the sand in glass jars, each complete with a label where he devotedly writes the name of each country in clear letters across the front. I suppose he enjoys collecting bits of places. Although I do not have a tangible collection of these treasures, I imagine I do the same – it’s my hope to keep bits of the world with me as well. This sand may be “so terra,” but it’s an integral part of my collection.