Ta Bai e Triste, Ta Bem, Maguado

July 20, 2007

A month of life – and how can it be that it passes away in a blinding memory, searing the edges of thought and lingering, the color of a roaring fire. Distinct moments guide me through the concept of time, hinting shyly at the many innumerable events already forgotten. A tree cut down, now but a stump of wood. A canister blackened to soot. Green buds rising from a barren earth. These are evidence of the running of things, of the continuation of a script written long ago. I am left to wonder.

July 21, 2007

My cat types too:

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*Conributed by distinguished Amilcar Cabral, a.k.a. “Xuxanti” (little rascal)

August 22, 2007

I just got to my house in Fogo after three whirlwind weeks in the States and a week of mid-service exams in the capital of Praia. I opened the door and immediately smelled something rotting inside. My friend and I walked cautiously around, attempting to guess at the source of the pungent odor. Apparently the electricity had been turned off and there was a good amount of fish left in the freezer. Despite my general tendency to detailed description, I will simply say that it was the smelliest welcome home gift of my life.

August 23, 2007

After about three whirlwind weeks in the States, I am now back in Ponta Verde. My roommate is helping to train new volunteers in Assomada. In my solitude, and the mid afternoon calm laying a soft veil of serenity upon me, I reflect on the past month of my life. Arriving in America was like jolting out of a dream. I thought of the small rural routine I had become accustomed to as the starry expanse of Boston lights slowly churned by. Then the wheels of the plane hit ground, jerked and came to a roaring stop along lines of other airliner jets. I felt like the breath was knocked out of me, and then I opened my eyes to another world. The dream of the last year drained thickly out of me and I woke up.

Standing numbly in line at the customs area along with a large group of Cape Verdeans, I saw the culture of Cape Verde in striking contrast to the American security personnel around me. The lights of the airport gave the bald pale heads of the American men an unnatural glow. Their intimidating orders were barked in the faces of people I knew from Cape Verde – professionals, people with Visas, those with stature due to a connection to the States – appeared small and ordinary, at the mercy of these large men with Boston accents and short tempers.

“Look lady – if there are mangoes in your suitcase, you’re in BIG trouble, you hear me?? Just ONE mango, and that’s a $300 fine. Do you understand! I am NOT messing around!” I heard a female security employee bellow in the face of a Cape Verdean woman who looked perplexed and slightly annoyed as she guessed what this angry foreign woman was shouting. It was a harsh observation of relativity for me. Many of these compliant and anxious people were community leaders with big reputations in Cape Verde. Here, airport personnel were shoving them around.

As I was contemplating this, one of the younger male employees, badge shining, pulled me out of line by the arm and said, “You wanna get out of here?”

“Well, it’s not 7 hours until my next flight, so no, not particularly,” I responded.

“C’mon, you don’t belong here, these people smell,” he smirked in disgust. “Let’s go, I’ll get you out of here so you don’t have to wait with them anymore.”

Since it appeared that he wasn’t giving me a choice, and since it seemed ineffective to let him I smelled just as bad as everyone else in line (I knew because I could not smell it), I followed compliantly (must have been the intimidating badge) and “got out of there.” A stamp on the passport, a whisk though imaginary boundaries, and Boston opened up before me.

My mom, unexpectedly, stood among a group of Cape Verdean-Americans waiting for passengers to disembark. She jumped on a plane to surprise me in Boston and her smiling face mixed along with the crowd, she holding a welcome home sign. My mind recognized her before my eyes did, and instead of having to sleep in the terminal till my next flight, she pulled me into a hug and swept me along in my cultural shock to a high class hotel.

The efficiency and luxury astounded me. It was all familiar in my memory, but I never knew how many factors contribute to quickness and comfort in the States. Cars arrived on time, speakers listed helpful information, moving sidewalks made walking effortless, and doors flew open automatically into air conditioned rooms full of comfy chairs and refreshments. No map needed, no difficult journey, no problems. Everything was organized, people were efficient and you got what you wanted when you wanted it. We went up to the room and I flushed a toilet for the first time in a year, which I reported to my mom who appeared amused. We had a beer that actually tasted like good quality beer in the lobby. I took a hot shower and fell asleep in a comforter-covered bed wearing a soft fuzzy robe.

The next couple weeks flew past like a single, wonderful day. I slept about 3 hours a night just to not miss a moment. It was difficult to see everyone I wanted, and even more so to find quality one-on-one time with people. I went off-roading in my jeep, ate a billion burritos, attended comedy shows with friends and visited San Clemente, Santa Barbara, Lake Arrowhead and Vegas where my best friend got married. I delivered a maid of honor speech, to a crowd of twinkling wine glasses, drank out of a Fat Tuesday’s sippie cup that boasted 33 shots of alcohol, and walked the larger-than-life radiance of the strip. Family members gave me clothes and school supplies to take back to Cape Verde. I saw the people I loved, spent as much time as I could, and was under the delusion the entire time that my service had ended. The reality of the past year appeared to slip away.

I guess everyone expected to see the physical impact Cape Verde has had on me over the past year. People kept saying to me, “You look exactly the same. You’re exactly the same!” Maybe they were expecting dreadlocks, torn clothing, a weather-worn face and bony arms. And so, once a haircut, good eyebrow plucking and T.J. Maxx shopping trip had been achieved, I was swept back into Southern Cali lifestyle as though I had never left it. It appeared – to others – that I was exactly the same. I believe I was under the delusion myself.

But I am in no way the same. I will always be me, but I am changed entirely. It is surprising that the reconstruction of my spirit, priorities, interests, methods of thought, experience, maturity, life lessons, challenges, patience and adaptability became transparent. I feel like a Zelda video game where the character goes out and gathers more hearts, fights monsters, overcomes triumphs and collects weapons and riches that are hidden beneath his cloak. The whole idea is that once he gets through it all he can return home and forget. There he will be welcomed back, congratulated and accepted, as he was, an unchanged man with an impressive obstacle overcome, ready to be who he was when he originally left. It makes me wonder if this imaginary character in his imaginary world ever tells anyone about the monsters he’s fought, the courage it took for him to return, and the dreams within which he continues to live the adventure.

I thought about this a lot while I was in the States. I found myself wondering what it will be like to leave Cape Verde and live once again in my old life. What will I do when I can no longer speak Kriolu? When every stranger on the street does not say hello, how am I, how is my family, tudu fixi? How will I leave behind a community, cutting up vegetables on concrete floor, hanging laundry to dry, a 100-year-old woman who says I love you bo, the toddler shadows who knock on my door the moment I awake, the dimly lit nights of dancing Zuki and Funana, the women who laugh toothless smiles with me and teach naughty words in the firewood kitchen as we make catxupa…?

So sometimes the burden becomes the blessing. The challenge grows into a beautiful way of life that is difficult to leave. No one stays in Cape Verde long – everyone is trying to get out and discover success and possibility. But no one ever denies their love for a sleepy agricultural village 300 miles off the western coast of Africa.

And so I ask the warrior, home from the beaten path at the end of it all: does he ever fully put down his shield and not dream of his adventures?

I can answer this, as I am amidst it now and the dreams already come.

August 26, 2007

When I was a child, I remember my preschool teacher sitting down next to me at snack time as I was eating an apple. At the time I was a quiet child who had a tendency to remain awake during naptime. Pity taken in regards to my iron will, I was allowed to turn the pages of books as other children slept about on mats in the dark room. My imagination was overactive yet my inexperience in the world made me equally uneasy. At the age of four I had not yet come to grips with how life worked or why it wasn’t like the place I had left behind. The teacher must have taken an interest in this tiny silent child as she, smiling, leaned down to my level and took the apple from my hands. Instead of protesting, I looked at her as she asked, “Would you like to see a star in this apple?” Intrigued, I nodded.

She placed the apple on a little table and cut it in half horizontally. As she held up the wax crimson and milky white, I stared in awe at the russet seeds that formed the shape of a prominent five-point star. I couldn’t eat the apple. It was too perfect. Instead I proudly carried it around all day as both it and my hands turned brown and gooey. It served as my first true lessons about life: beauty exists where you least expect it, and life is full of mysterious surprises. Without the memory of each, such things would cease to exist at all.

The apple lasted about 3 hours. The lesson remains.

August 28, 2007

My loud turqoise-painted house stands firmly along a cobblestone road and looks out longingly at the island of Brava. Surrounding papaya trees dance jaggedly in the breeze. There is a heavy heat and incoming darkness at midday, which means rain is coming. I feel the sticky musk, curtains of mosquitos and … a tiny knock on my door. Golden ringlets and a coffee-complexion stare up at me with saucers for eyes. Long lashes, a button nose, rose-petal mouth and bare dirty feet.

“Agu xu-xu!”

Kriolu from this 3-year-old wrapped in brown rags. I hand her the black bucket with the thin metal handle. She takes the broken eggshells, apple cores, fish bones and vegetable peels, stumbles awkwardly out across the dirt path to feed the family pig. When she comes back holding the washed-out bucket, I place plump imported grapes from the market in her hand. Looking out the side window shutters, I watch as her siblings surround her and follow her back to the front of their home, tucked away in fields of corn, stone walls and smoke from the firewood kitchen. All of them about three feet tall. All of them filthy and giggling at the purple bouquet of fruit. They sit about the concrete floor and sing in little voices as they eat. Their melody finds my painted house as I write, type down their expressions and personalities so you can picture them and know them in a way. And here you are, reading, picturing, knowing them, my shadows who never leave my side.

August 30, 2007

Do you see these diaries collect? While I was in California my aunt pulled out a stack of my printed journals. It was over 50 typed pages long. I felt the papers in my hands and imagined myself, countless times, as I am now, leaning over the laptop at the tips of my fingers and laboring over the love of speculation, engagement, want of capturing that which can not be contained fully in a thousand pages. If there were not some solace in seeking comfort an ocean away, I would continue on in my quest to get it all down. I would perspire and furiously assess the daily meaningful encounters. I would continue, and in doing so, achieve a transcribed notion of two years of life.

September 3, 2007

Yesterday I ran through torrents of rain to my friend’s loja (store) and waited for a car to bila. There at the airport I met the incoming flight and four new Peace Corps volunteers who will be living on the island of Fogo. In the life of a volunteer, when the job description is formally fixed (although not in practice) and the time allotted is limited, there is nothing as eye-opening in regards to the passage of time as welcoming in the next year’s volunteers. That makes me a second-year – an “experienced” volunteer. The funny thing is, despite the fact that I know the answers to their questions, I don’t think that I could call myself experienced even another year from now. There is too much to learn, too many people to help, too many projects not pursued, too much of the language left to master for me to consider myself an expert on anything here. The arrival of these bright-eyed ME’s from last year is too uncanny to fathom. I feel as thought I am teaching myself.

And throughout all of this the clock continues to wield its threatening hands as the caution of time ticks away…

September 7, 2007

Today is 14 months in Cape Verde.

September 9, 2007

as the transition of seasons flow…
the island of Fogo looks like a fairy tale –
a sleeping beauty transformed from brittle lava rock
to a deep ivy green wrapped in purple flowers.
dusty ribeiras
garbage and filth
slide away
grow life,
promise.
an inner stir,
a flutter of lids,
been kissed
and awakened from a deep slumber.
moss-covered cliffs over a goblet ocean;
above,
a crater of stone houses
caught within oncoming mists.
smoke rises and dances along a forest of fiery blossoms
swimming in bottle green.
life all around takes a deep breath,
stretches wings wide.
beauty yawns,
majestically rises from a dream.
and all the while,
rain falls in a soothing hush.

September 10, 2007

Today is one year in Ponta Verde.

September 11, 2007

All of America has, for the past six years since this date, seen Sept. 11 as a time of destruction, terror, and a catalyst that set the world stage to a script that spells out an illusive war. A time of heightened alert, international awareness, and the ambiguity of rights has forever been scorched into our minds as a defining point between the moment the towers - and our nation - was standing firm, to the moment it appeared to be crumbling before us into a sea of flames.

The tragedy of that day never led me to believe the world was coming to an end. Although my mother works for a major airline and I found myself as a staff writer for the college newspaper interviewing students about their reactions to the images splattered across every channel, I never questioned the continuation of life that would no doubt continue despite the thousands of lives lost, an ensuing fear of traveling to unknown parts of the world, and the enactment of the Patriot Act. Call me a Californian who was on the other side of the nation when tragedy struck; call me a naïve youngster with ideas of liberation, freedom, optimism and autonomy at my willful disposal; I was simply not dissuaded to join Peace Corps.

The horrendous event did, in fact, enforce the desire within me to communicate with people who, by all accounts, were worlds apart. Ensuing fear of the unknown that was strongly felt in the aftermath of the eleventh made me want to go out and shake hands with what might overwhelmingly be categorized as the “enemy.” This year I live in a country I did not know existed a year ago, in an isolated Cape Verdean community off the western African coast. My friends here laugh at me as they point out my white glowing skin in contrast to their radiating coffee-brown complexion. My fine, soft hands (mão fino) smooth against their strong, hard-earned calluses. They gawk at my blonde hair blowing free next to their beautiful thick braids. We both struggle helplessly, like children, as we attempt to communicate in the other’s language. But we try, and we succeed.

I have begun to learn that there truly is nothing to fear but fear itself. That there really are demons who walk the earth, but that they largely exist to keep you from meeting angels. That there are enough dangers and tragedies to last us to the end of days, but that never kept another day from coming. Here, little by little, I bridge a gap of misunderstanding within myself and another culture. Here, fingers intertwine, light and dark, tip the scales of history and even out the evils of the world a bit.

And so today I am remembering a different story of 9/11 – a story that still envisions two towers continuing to stand. One, the nation I represent, and the other, at my side, the new nation I have come to call home.

September 14, 2007

There are times here when the purpose of my life seems to connect, willingly, with the unforeseen events of the future. There is a smooth interval that seeks to communicate to me without words, and I stand by willingly, awaiting the next installment of information, like a soldier on duty, ready at will, anticipating even the most unfathomable assignments. The fear within is dispelled by a belief that, despite the cloudy ash of aftermath, the meaning will somehow appear, as an apparition, from the obscurity of smoke. It will rise up, undeniably, from the complication of the visible, and utterly confirm the coded significance of that which has come to pass. In this, one seeks solace. Emotion, prayer, desire, conviction…all tend to play common roles in this method of thought. The requirement is none other than belief. Here lies an immense canyon of difference, between those who move forward courageously, and those who are utterly hindered by doubt.