Differences, but not the song by Ginuwine…

It’s good to talk how people are alike and we’re a common humanity. I believe it too, though I only know five countries (plus Amsterdam’s airport. I’m told this doesn’t count. It was nice and I think I’ll like Europe immensely). It’s probably more interesting to you intrepid readers, who bravely slog through my awkward and infrequent posts, to hear about differences. I’ll say, in my day-to-day life, what’s different from the US and put approximate prices, to show how expensive it is. Things are often as pricey as the US, yet per capita GDP in CV is less than $1,500/year, and much less for average farmers. Fogo and Santo Antão are the poorest islands.

I wake at 6:45, faintly hearing roosters. Trucks rumble by filled with pilfered sand from the beaches or volcano. I get water from the filter, bleach it, and drink. I put CV coffee ($2.50/250g) in a pot and mix in 1.5 mugs of water. I light the gas stove with a Bic, singeing my hand. The oven is scarier. It’s a mini explosion. On another burner I fry an egg ($0.25). A common misconception is the need to refrigerate eggs. False. I’ve never refrigerated here, and I’ve only been to the hospital twice. Maybe I have parasites or amoebas but raw cookie dough is worth it. Fresh cow’s milk is not. No thank you. But it’s true, some doctor somewhere said eggs are fine at room temp. While coffee and egg cook, I peel a Fogo orange ($0.25), pale yellow, bruised, dirty, sour-ish, full of seeds. They don’t taste bad, and I like to support Fogo. Coffee boils a few minutes, and then I turn it off and let the grounds settle. I slowly pour into a mug, trying to keep the sludge in the pot.

After breakfast I walk to the office, passing women with big bowls balanced beautifully (alliteration!) on their heads, full of produce, fish, or clothes. Men idle near Hotel Xaguate with spear guns and other fishing implements. Kids going to morning session (to maximize existing infrastructure and teachers, school is ½ day) walk by, some in pressed school shirts, knockoff Diesel jeans, and Nike Air Force 1s, others in grubby t-shirts and holey flip-flops, or no footwear at all. Goats graze the ribeiras (valleys) or wander the streets, eating delicious delicious trash.

At the mint green office trimmed in black and white painted stones, I greet Cape Verdean, Portuguese, Brazilian, Guinean (Bissau), Cuban, and German colleagues in Kriolu and Portuguese. If power’s out, people cluster on the veranda smoking and chatting. Farmers fresh from the fields mingle with snappily dressed office workers. Extensionists zoom in and out of the parking lot on 1970s and 80s Honda dirt bikes, past 90s pickups and sparkling 2000s Toyota Prados (Land Cruisers).

In the office I sit with my boss and our colleague, competing for the Ethernet cable. Gmail offline is my savior. I bring toilet paper and hand sanitizer, in the likely situation the bathroom lacks both. To flush, turn on the water to fill the tank as it’s not automatic. I once had to scour the maid closet, finding a bucket of mop water to flush because the tank wouldn’t fill. In this water-poor country, if it’s yellow, let it mellow, if it’s brown etc. etc. I do lunch at 12ish, going home for leftovers and returning at 1ish. I drink “juice,” a catchall term encompassing real juice, Coke, Fanta, and what I have, Foster Clark’s, a glorified Kool Aid. At 3:30 I leave, passing people desiring a ride.

Hitchhiking is normal. If you own a car you help those less fortunate. There are also paid taxis and shared vans/pickups, which run more-or-less fixed routes but stop where you want within reason. There are a few buses, and 40 of us once waited 30 minutes while a rider got a haircut. Most people let you jump in their pickup bed for a lift. If you want to go somewhere, start walking and you’ll get a ride.

For shopping, it’s the commercial district or Super Rodrigo, the cheapest food store. It’s been dubbed, by PCVs, the Wal-Mart of CV. It’s a supermarket, home/building supply, and bulk food store. Supermarkets are stocked like decent 7-11s or gas stations. Sometimes prices are marked. The Shell gas station is open everyday, while everything else closes Sundays. For fresh produce or fish it’s the Mercado Municipal, with women vending what’s in season, from apples to beans to goat cheese. Tuna, serra (sawfish?), grouper, and others are available. Sushi-grade tuna costs $2.50/lb. Unlike other W. African countries, there’s little haggling. For household goods visit Chinese stores (lojas chinés), owned/run by Chinese people. They vend hilariously low-quality goods cheaply. There’s another open-air market, with knockoff and almost new clothes and electronics.

I read, nap, or listen to BBC until 5:30 when run with friends. We go to the port and back, maybe 4 miles? If a ship just arrived we go see, or go to the beach, climb the rocks, or check out the fishermen motoring their little skiffs in from the choppy seas between Fogo and Brava, one of the smallest islands, hulking ominously in the distance. You can also see the Dry Islands (Ilhas Secas), which are uninhabited but intriguing.

Back home, I drink milk with camoca (like ground burnt popcorn kernels that didn’t pop with sugar), relax, and start dinner. Usually I have rice and beans, like a good Cape Verdean. After, it’s reading, meeting friends at a bar, or if Friday the discoteca. Every so often I shower. We have running water, but we do it the submarine way, i.e. get wet, turn off the water, soap up, then rinse. It’s on less than a minute. I hit the sack before 11 and repeat in the morning.

On weekends (not every weekend) I wash clothes, bending over a basin of water with a washboard and a bar of laundry soap, the kind in the US you’re not supposed to touch. At first it makes the skin fall off your hands, but they learn. You can also wash your face with it. After wringing, I hang clothes on the roof, hoping the neighbor’s dog Kiko won’t tear them down and stink ‘em up like she did with my 2nd favorite pair of pants. The sun’s strong, drying clothes in 3-4 hours. I have trouble grasping how a “real” washing machine works now, considering I use about 3 gallons of water and no electricity. Clothes take a beating, but they’re cleaner than with a machine. It’s a good workout, but probably explains why many older women are hunchbacked.

I guess the last difference is total strangers are nice and invite you into their lives, especially in rural areas. I don’t think it’s because I’m white, either. It makes a big difference speaking Kriolu, not Portuguese, the language of colonization, oppression, and starvation (100,000+ Cape Verdeans died of hunger in the 1900s). More so in Chã, I felt like an accepted member of the families.

All right txau. Obrigadu.