Post Carnival

My last blog was written in transit from Fogo to São Nicolau. Now vacation is over and I’m back on the Island of Fire. Carnival was, in a word, awesome. One of the best things I’ve ever done. As advertised, São Nic was “terra terra,” the people incredibly welcoming, the island ridiculously safe and beautiful, absolutely worth the time and money.

A group of male PCVs, including me, joined one of the two groups, Copa Cabana, and danced in the parade. Local tailors made shiny black costumes decorated with brilliant silver fringe and buttons, flashy silver breastplates and wrist guards, and intricate and heavy crowns measuring half a meter wide and almost as tall. To add to the ridiculousness we let fellow PCVs go wild with glitter and makeup, as if we wouldn’t stand out enough with our rather lighter skin, shaggy hair, and questionable though provocative dance skills.

It took several hours of dancing to travel less than a mile through the streets into the main square, where the subgroups of Copa Cabana and Strela (Star) would show off their moves to the crowd, with bands playing from floats furiously playing the repetitive though catchy songs.

As the floats meandered through the narrow cobbled streets of Ribeira Brava, riders with poles would carefully raise drooping power lines over the floats and dancers. Like a marathon, Cape Verdean style, spectators would rush to the dancers with bottles of grog or punch (grog mixed with sugarcane honey and lemon) and shot glasses, to “quench” the dancers’ thirst and give energy for the long night ahead. Once every group reached the square all hell broke loose with insane dancing, jumping up and down, yelling.

There were three parades over four days. I made the last two. For the final parade we started at 5:30pm as the sun dipped below the mountains. It took at least four hours to reach the square. The feeling of exhilaration was like when the Michigan track team won outdoor Big 10s in 2008, but over a matter of hours instead of minutes. More and more dancers and spectators jammed the square, with blinding camera flashes, blaring music, and a healthy dose of dirty dancing.

When the square finally cleared, we devoured plates of rice and vegetables and headed to the PCV house to change. After 1am we arrived at Copa Cabana’s discoteca, the dance floor packed. It wasn’t until 6am that I exhaustedly collapsed into a dreamless sleep at the house.

Over the next few days I explored São Nicolau with other PCVs. Before the last parade, I’d climbed Mt. Gordo, Cape Verde’s second highest peak, hiking an hour from Cachaço to Ribeira Brava afterwards. Seeing the island’s beauty, the PCVs’ jobs, the subtle ways it’s more developed than Fogo, the way of life, definitely aroused jealousy. In my invitation to serve in Cape Verde, I was to work in either the Santiago natural park or São Nicolau’s. Here I am on Fogo…

After too few days on São Nicolau, I headed to São Vicente, with a layover on Sal. Fortunately, the plane left São Nicolau early and Sal late, so I had the unexpected opportunity to spend a good portion of the day on Sal. I’d never planned to visit, as I don’t care for the ocean (its main attraction), loads of beach tourists, and didn’t necessarily want to see the island that’s been sacrificed on the altar of tourism.

Upon arriving, I called one of two PCVs from Sal, who kindly showed me the island’s main towns of Espargos (where Cape Verdeans live) and Santa Maria (where tourists run wild, prostitution and drugs flourish, and you’re more likely to see Senegalese vendors than Cape Verdeans). In what for me was a very un-Cape Verde experience, we ate gelato and strolled a pier jutting into the perfectly clear Atlantic where it laps at pristine white sand beaches. In the distance tourists took advantage of one of the world’s top windsurfing locations. I saw what the PCVs do at their jobs, with a very advanced municipal government. Though I only had a few hours there, I’m grateful to have seen the island, how my colleagues live, how different one island can be from the ones I know and prefer.

I landed in Mindelo, São Vicente, after dark. Getting into the first taxi, I headed to one of the PCV houses, chatting with the Fogo born driver about the increasing violence in the city. One of my colleagues and I got dinner at a hip Cuban restaurant, then caught a bit of the famous nightlife, where live bands play all night along the boardwalk. Mindelo is said to be the cultural center of Cape Verde, though I prefer Praia’s raw if gritty energy to Mindelo’s European vibe. Over the next few days I saw the city, including the incredible new marina where yachters flaunt their wealth, guarded by a locked gate and police meters from drug addicted street kids.

Next I took the hour boat ride to Santo Antão, the second largest island, known for its spectacular mountains separated by rich valleys bursting with sugarcane and bananas. Water runs in the valleys year round, which blew my mind. I had the opportunity to visit every PCV site, often hiking several hours to reach them. The most incredible hikes went from Ponto do Sol to Cruzinha, where we saw whales jumping off the coast and from Chã de Igreja over an impossibly tall mountain to Ribeira Grande, passing through Coculi. The PCVs mercifully put me up, took me on hikes, sampled the island’s best cachupa in various towns, and searched for pontxe de bolacha.

In Coculi, one of my favorite encounters occurred. My hiking buddy informed me that Coculi has the Calú e Angela (the best supermarkets in Cape Verde, like the third best minimarket in Mason, MI) of Santo Antão. (Supermarket hopping is one of my favorite activities, as Peace Corps trainees discovered in August when they frequently saw me wandering Assomada’s Calú e Angela with no intention of buying anything, because the selection compared to Fogo makes my head explode. Granola? Brown sugar? Anti-cavity mouthwash? BOOM!).

After exiting with a package of cookies labeled in an unidentified language, a man furtively motioned for me to come to him as he lurked around the corner of the building. Assuming he was a drug dealer, I nonetheless approached. In Santo Antão Kriolu, he tersely whispered, “I have books. Romance novels. In English. Are you interested?” I left more puzzled than if he’d asked if I was interested in some excellent crack-cocaine, but pleased he’d identified me as an avid reader.

The last night, in Porto Novo, was…memorable. After getting very excited to experience the Friday nightlife in the island’s biggest town, we made for Cave, the discoteca. The bouncer discouraged our first entry attempt, saying it wasn’t worth the cover ($1.20). Eventually we overcame his protests, and immediately regretted it (in retrospect, the memory is well worth it). Inside were approximately three prostitutes; a slightly larger group of their clients; and several men drunkenly or highly dancing alone, including a rather large one with a propensity to intimidate us with his moves and referred to by a hanger-on in English as “very bad.”

The following day I hopped the early ferry, slept a bit in the PCV house in Mindelo, and flew to Praia, where I stayed a comical night before traveling to Fogo. There I slept in São Filipe, and that Monday, finally returned to Chã das Caldeiras, where some people speculated I had returned to America without saying goodbye.

More to come…sometime. If I ever have internet access…