I’m writing from Mosteiros, Fogo’s second largest community. Apparently it’ll gain city status before long. When I came to CV, there existed five cities: Praia, São Filipe, Porto Novo, Mindelo, and Assomada. Pedro Badejo on Santiago will soon join their ranks, if not already. Jonny and I are planning an accounting class, which we’ll give in February. It’ll complement an entrepreneurism class he gave to prospective business owners over a few months ending in November.
I came to São Filipe from Chã on Saturday morning in the back of a truck filled with apples, pigeon peas, several Chã residents, and a goat. We went to a football (soccer) game, in which one of São Filipe’s teams, Académica, beat Mosteiros’ Cutelinho in a match that went to overtime. We baked in the sun snacking on raw peanuts and downing freshquinhas, little plastic bags filled with frozen juice, in this case tamarind. We rested awhile, then went to a going away party for two nurses from the Portuguese NGO Assistência Medical Internacional, which is active on Fogo. Finally we headed up to everyone’s favorite São Filipe discoteca, Faixa de Terra (Piece of Land).
Today we left São Filipe at 10:45 am, and started the walk to Mosteiros. As it’s about 25 miles away, we hoped to panha un boleia (hitch a ride). Shortly after leaving the São Filipe city limits, we hailed an empty work truck heading in the right direction. As luck would have it, it was headed to Mosteiros, so we jumped in the expansive bed, normally filled with Fogo’s black sand, used in construction when mixed with cement. We got to Mosteiros very quickly, and importantly for PCVs, without spending a single escudo.
Sitting in the sandy bed, flying through villages, watching the rough sea pound the cliffs, I thought of Fogo’s beautiful black sand beaches which are legally stolen to build concrete block buildings. Near Ribeira de Barca, on Santiago, what was once a similarly beautiful black sand beach has been reduced to a rocky strip of land where few swim anymore. However, each day locals wade into the surf with buckets, dive to the bottom, fill the containers, and struggle back to shore with whatever sand they glean from the sea floor. When São Filipe’s beaches Fonte de Vila and Praia da Nossa Senhora disappear over the next few years, no one can say they didn’t see it coming.
Up in Chã I’ve been working mostly at the winery. I enjoy working there, which can mean anything from helping with bottling to having excellent conversations about business-related things like pricing and the IVA (value added tax). Two relatively unpleasant things occurred there recently, but nothing to dissuade me from coming back.
We bottled the 2009 red one day, a high quality and very popular product. The winery can’t produce enough of it. I took my turn at the corker, which unlike in a more mechanized winery, involves manually loading a cork and depressing a long lever with both arms to force the cork into the bottle. Sometimes the bottles have hairline cracks in them, missed by the factory, the people who wash them at the winery, the person filling them, and finally the corker. One such bottle made it to me. I put it in the machine, slammed down the lever, and the top half of the bottle essentially exploded, covering my leg and several workers with red wine. Fortunately no one was cut by the splintered glass. Even a Cape Verdean woman probably can’t get half a liter of red wine out of a pair of jeans, let alone a comparatively lazy American.
The next day, wearing a clean pair of pants, I came back. Having finished bottling the red the previous day, white wine bottling continued. Around 10 am two workers came with a cabrito (baby goat), which clearly indicated a delicious lunch. Cabritos are very cute. You can play with them like puppies. For Thanksgiving 2008 we made the mistake of getting two cabritos Wednesday, playing with them until Thursday. Anyway, the guys showed up with the cabrito, and began to search for a slaughterer. “You guys don’t want to kill it?” “No, look how cute it is! We don’t want to kill it.” Eventually I volunteered to do the deed. I’ll spare the details, only noting that the formerly clean pants got blood on them, and that lunch indeed was delicious.
24 January 2010
11 January 2010
Back to Basics
Happy New Year to all. This is my first blog for 2010. I’m writing Sunday Jan10. I left Michigan the 4th, to Baltimore, then Boston. At 2:30 am on the 5th the reliably unstressed TACV flight took off for Praia, Cape Verde, a mere four hours fashionably late. Seven hours later, we arrived in one of West Africa’s fastest growing cities, currently about the size of Lansing. It seems bigger than it is, though I can’t imagine what Dakar will be like. I suppose like Accra, but crazier.
An unexpected layover kept me, but not my checked luggage, in Praia that evening. This actually worked well as I got a checkup with our PC doctor and antibiotics for a sinus infection. On the 6th only 30 minutes behind schedule, which for TACV is right on time, if not early, we left Praia for São Filipe, Fogo, at 10:30. We touched down masterfully a half hour later.
A fellow PCV and her friend happened to be on the same flight for a Fogo vacation, so I invited them to stay with me in my spacious 225 sq ft studio apartment/concrete box in Chã das Caldeiras. First, however, I had to liberate my bag.
After inquiring in the airport, a helpful though misinformed young woman directed me to the port (for boats) on the extreme other end of São Filipe, where she believed the baggage from the previous night had been sent to customs. We hopped in the van of a friend, speeding through the quaint and pretty coastal town, allegedly the cleanest in Cape Verde, officially the hardest hit (by percentage) by the 2009 dengue fever epidemic, and athletically the volleyball champion of the archipelago.
We pulled into the rather fishy, rough-and-tumble port (what port isn’t?), my Cape Verdean driver/friend/protector from bureaucracy leading the way. The helpful policeman directed us to the airport, to where a hired van had just left from the port, to gather last night’s luggage. We could intercept my bag if we hurried.
Arriving at the airport just in time, I handed another policeman my ticket stub, pointing out the fabulous purple bag, and went on my way. Almost. Back into the van, back to the port, where the customs official had to inspect the bag. Funny, none of that in Praia the previous day. The young man opened my bag, lifted a t-shirt, asking if there was anything else. Absolutely not, sir. Okay, you can go. We grabbed some freshly fried fish, and sped off to catch the van to Chã, but 2-3 hours or 37 km away.
In my first week back I’ve eased into life in the crater. The other PCV, her friend, and I climbed the volcano. I’ve been asked to make sure our volunteers stay safe on the explosive mountain, which entails scrambling to the top from time to time, in total 15 times I believe. I gave them a winery tour and tasting, we caught live Fogo music, Atalia Baixo, and in general enjoyed ourselves.
They left, and I resumed work at the winery. Saturday I helped labeling the new pomegranate liqueur and gave two tours, one to a group of Bridgeport State teaching students and the other to a knowledgeable Austrian couple. Both purchased myriad bottles of the pomegranate liqueur, which is sure to sell out rapidly.
It’s been all right coming back. In general when I leave the island, I don’t relish returning, however. I think my ambivalent attitude towards my time in Cape Verde threw a lot of people off in the US. When you see those billboards with the smiling American surrounded by adorable African kids, you subconsciously imagine Peace Corps as 27 months of bliss. Sometimes it’s great, undoubtedly. I’m lucky to live at a highly coveted site where I have great friends and cool activities. I live at the foot of an active volcano, which is awesome. They say Peace Corps gives you the highest highs and the lowest lows. I’ve had the lowest lows, to be sure.
Going home, it was good to hear from PCVs and their families and friends that our myriad frustrations in CV are shared regardless of country. Good in a way, but bad in the universality of the complaints. On returning, more than one CV PCV said, to paraphrase, “I respect that you came back. If I went home, I don’t think I would’ve returned.” Back in MI, though, it was nice to see the benefits one accrues from volunteering.
While my group perceives it has missed a lot in these tumultuous 16 months, aside from a crippling economic crisis that sadly made America seem worse than I left it, and a plethora of unimportant pop culture highlights (except for Jersey Shore, right Matt?), not much has changed. My friends have new jobs, grad programs, significant others, and locations, but at heart the months and miles haven’t changed much between us.
Sure I now feel fine on the two showers per week plan, can kill a chicken, speak two new languages, genuinely like kids (maybe not bratty American kids who I can’t “straighten out” without legal problems), and can subsist on rice and beans thrice daily for days or weeks. Everyone noticed my PC version of the thousand mile stare, my comical indecisiveness at Jersey Giant deli or the Meridian Mall food court, and the tendency to slip into Kriolu. But aside from those minor quirks all was basically the same.
I think going through hard culture shock after Ghana saved me a bit this time. Maybe coming back finally after finishing in CV will be different, when vacation mode ends and it’s back to the hard reality of America. I assure every Cape Verdean who wants a visa that the US is a brutal place, especially for a person of color with a sixth grade education who knows four phrases in English, three of them unprintable.
For once I have more to write, but as usual my battery’s almost done. Perhaps I’ll get around to finishing up in another couple of weeks. Thanks.
An unexpected layover kept me, but not my checked luggage, in Praia that evening. This actually worked well as I got a checkup with our PC doctor and antibiotics for a sinus infection. On the 6th only 30 minutes behind schedule, which for TACV is right on time, if not early, we left Praia for São Filipe, Fogo, at 10:30. We touched down masterfully a half hour later.
A fellow PCV and her friend happened to be on the same flight for a Fogo vacation, so I invited them to stay with me in my spacious 225 sq ft studio apartment/concrete box in Chã das Caldeiras. First, however, I had to liberate my bag.
After inquiring in the airport, a helpful though misinformed young woman directed me to the port (for boats) on the extreme other end of São Filipe, where she believed the baggage from the previous night had been sent to customs. We hopped in the van of a friend, speeding through the quaint and pretty coastal town, allegedly the cleanest in Cape Verde, officially the hardest hit (by percentage) by the 2009 dengue fever epidemic, and athletically the volleyball champion of the archipelago.
We pulled into the rather fishy, rough-and-tumble port (what port isn’t?), my Cape Verdean driver/friend/protector from bureaucracy leading the way. The helpful policeman directed us to the airport, to where a hired van had just left from the port, to gather last night’s luggage. We could intercept my bag if we hurried.
Arriving at the airport just in time, I handed another policeman my ticket stub, pointing out the fabulous purple bag, and went on my way. Almost. Back into the van, back to the port, where the customs official had to inspect the bag. Funny, none of that in Praia the previous day. The young man opened my bag, lifted a t-shirt, asking if there was anything else. Absolutely not, sir. Okay, you can go. We grabbed some freshly fried fish, and sped off to catch the van to Chã, but 2-3 hours or 37 km away.
In my first week back I’ve eased into life in the crater. The other PCV, her friend, and I climbed the volcano. I’ve been asked to make sure our volunteers stay safe on the explosive mountain, which entails scrambling to the top from time to time, in total 15 times I believe. I gave them a winery tour and tasting, we caught live Fogo music, Atalia Baixo, and in general enjoyed ourselves.
They left, and I resumed work at the winery. Saturday I helped labeling the new pomegranate liqueur and gave two tours, one to a group of Bridgeport State teaching students and the other to a knowledgeable Austrian couple. Both purchased myriad bottles of the pomegranate liqueur, which is sure to sell out rapidly.
It’s been all right coming back. In general when I leave the island, I don’t relish returning, however. I think my ambivalent attitude towards my time in Cape Verde threw a lot of people off in the US. When you see those billboards with the smiling American surrounded by adorable African kids, you subconsciously imagine Peace Corps as 27 months of bliss. Sometimes it’s great, undoubtedly. I’m lucky to live at a highly coveted site where I have great friends and cool activities. I live at the foot of an active volcano, which is awesome. They say Peace Corps gives you the highest highs and the lowest lows. I’ve had the lowest lows, to be sure.
Going home, it was good to hear from PCVs and their families and friends that our myriad frustrations in CV are shared regardless of country. Good in a way, but bad in the universality of the complaints. On returning, more than one CV PCV said, to paraphrase, “I respect that you came back. If I went home, I don’t think I would’ve returned.” Back in MI, though, it was nice to see the benefits one accrues from volunteering.
While my group perceives it has missed a lot in these tumultuous 16 months, aside from a crippling economic crisis that sadly made America seem worse than I left it, and a plethora of unimportant pop culture highlights (except for Jersey Shore, right Matt?), not much has changed. My friends have new jobs, grad programs, significant others, and locations, but at heart the months and miles haven’t changed much between us.
Sure I now feel fine on the two showers per week plan, can kill a chicken, speak two new languages, genuinely like kids (maybe not bratty American kids who I can’t “straighten out” without legal problems), and can subsist on rice and beans thrice daily for days or weeks. Everyone noticed my PC version of the thousand mile stare, my comical indecisiveness at Jersey Giant deli or the Meridian Mall food court, and the tendency to slip into Kriolu. But aside from those minor quirks all was basically the same.
I think going through hard culture shock after Ghana saved me a bit this time. Maybe coming back finally after finishing in CV will be different, when vacation mode ends and it’s back to the hard reality of America. I assure every Cape Verdean who wants a visa that the US is a brutal place, especially for a person of color with a sixth grade education who knows four phrases in English, three of them unprintable.
For once I have more to write, but as usual my battery’s almost done. Perhaps I’ll get around to finishing up in another couple of weeks. Thanks.
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