Lately things have been all right. The toughest part about this is the loneliness you can feel, even in the company of friends and people who care about you. In terms of work, things have improved. Now that my Kriolu is good enough for substantive conversation, people realize I might be of value. I wrote a proposal for a local youth group which netted over $1000 for a dance. The dance ended poorly, something I feared, and the reason you won’t find my name on the proposal! I learned a lot about project management though.
I’m working with the primary school director/zouk music star on the same proposal I wrote a few months ago. This time, however, the president of the municipal government asked for the proposal to fix the school, instead of a strange American thinking it was a good idea and trying to push it. We’ll see how it goes, but I’m hopeful. It’ll be around $3000 to repair the bathrooms, replace windows/doors/locks, and fix the water tank which will supply the bathroom and kitchen.
The composting toilet project is in full swing. A group of German speaking Italian students from a semiautonomous region on the border with Austria came to work with Cape Verdean high schoolers in agricultural projects. I worked with one Italian (Patrick) and one Cape Verdean on the toilet. Patrick tested for E. coli, prepared grapevines for compost, and suggested improvements for the bathroom design. I translated between the two students. The Italians spoke various levels of school English. While Patrick’s was basic he tried hard and I mostly understood. I tried to teach him American slang which he absorbed enthusiastically. Using the words he knew, we had colorful conversations about “shit” and “piss.”
It turned out the compost didn’t contain E. coli, but the nearby water tank did. This I learned after proving to the Italians I could drink untreated water from said tank without stomach issues. A Portuguese NGO nurse said the majority of stool samples from Chã test positive for E. coli, but a benign type.
It’s amazing how strong one’s stomach becomes over 20 odd months. I love the communal way we sometimes eat, with a plate and a few spoons or one water glass for a room full of people. I gladly accept the resulting colds. I eat dinner with one family often. I give English class from 5:30-7, and then go to their house for dinner. The father, Fatinho’s favorite dish is “skaldadu ku leite,” which is a bit like Moroccan couscous with fresh goat milk. Sometimes they put coffee with heaps of sugar over it as well. We mostly eat rice and beans though, with the odd fried fish, squash, or raw manioc.
I love going there at night, with anywhere from three to ten people crowded into the dark cinder block kitchen. A lone candle barely illuminates our faces. Some people squeeze onto a narrow bench, others sit on sacks of rice, logs, powdered milk cans, with kids on the floor. Normally the dog is there, and if there’s fish, we spit the bones on the floor for him to devour. Dogs in CV survive on bones and rice. If someone’s radio has batteries, we listen to Radio Criolo FM. If Fatinho’s there, sometimes we dance. Otherwise we joke and “konta parti” (tell our part, or story). Aside from his kids, others from surrounding houses often eat there, as well as cousins and younger men without women. Recently a woman came with her kids, shaken up after her man hit her. It’s a kind of wild, overpopulated oasis where everyone’s welcome.
Fatinho needs an explanation. At about 45, he has 46 children with multiple women. He’s incredibly charismatic and liked by just about everyone. He treats his family and children remarkably well, with several in high school in São Filipe (uncommon in Chã) and one at the University of Cape Verde in Praia. Each woman has a house in the compound, and they get along well. It’s common for men to have several women, but not this openly. Somehow he makes it work, though. On the other hand, it’s ridiculously irresponsible to have so many kids. I have no idea where they get the money to survive. Some of kids work at the winery; Fatinho is a mason; one of his women helps with his work; they have land where they grow grapes, beans, tomatoes, squash; and they raise pigs, goats, cows, and chickens.
I’m not sure there’s continuity to this blog, but I’m going to cut myself off here. Thanks for reading. Fika dretu!
19 April 2010
13 April 2010
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…
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…
13 February 2010
On the Road
I’m writing from São Filipe, in transit from Fogo to São Nicolau for Carnival (Mardi Gras). It’ll be interesting to see São Nic, one of two islands PC told me I’d go to, that or Santiago. Fogo? Its Carnival is the second biggest in CV, behind São Vicente’s. São Nic’s is said to be more terra terra, or uniquely Cape Verdean. I’d love to see Guinea-Bissau’s, but that’ll have to wait for another year.
It feels odd to, after basically just arriving from America, take another vacation. Us Americans aren’t used to 24 vacation days a year, at which our European friends scoff. I wonder why they have a higher quality of life? Shouldn’t all that dirty awful miserable socialism make them unhappy? Anyway, Christmas and Carnival only come once a year, however, and one of PC’s intentions is for volunteers to get to know the surrounding area.
For non-island PCVs that involves crossing borders, but for us, it’s visiting other islands. I would prefer the former, but that geography which unfortunately makes economic development very difficult, gives rise to more cultural diversity than similarly sized non-island nations. It makes CV an interesting tourist destination, but the interisland transport isn’t up to snuff.
Running tends to get ideas flowing. On a recent run I was thinking about the typically American thought that the market solves all problems. This is a big argument against raising any tax in Michigan, my state. God forbid we put a minimal tax on bottled water, which destroys our environment in several ways (plastic bottles are petroleum products, for example), is often no healthier or worse than tap water, and is certainly more expensive. We don’t need to fund firefighters, the market will provide them. “Hi, we’ve come to save your house. We’ll need an advance of $10,000 please. You don’t have it? That’s too bad. It looks like it was a nice house.”
The developing world is a good place to see the market in action, where the state is often weak and underfunded. The developing world does produce myriad innovations which come about despite, or due to, the constrained environment. That said, no one would hail as great market successes developing world education, healthcare, and transport. An economist might argue that those systems in existence in the developing world serve consumers’ needs as well as possible given the lack of money.
When I was in the hospital in Ghana, I went to the best facility in Accra, the capital. I paid about $200 for three days, a trifle for me but an impossible sum for all the people who suffered in the public clinics and hospitals for lack of money. The market solution for an American visitor is great, but for most of the 18-20 million Ghanaians, it effectively doesn’t exist.
You can compare CV which has a relatively strong state, to a plethora of W. African neighbors which don’t. Here public transport (often private cars with a license to carry passengers) is pretty well regulated. You need insurance, up-to-date maintenance, license, etc. Transport’s not great, but it’s not the race to the bottom you see in other countries, where cars are death boxes on wheels, held together with duct tape and wire, certainly have no pollution controls, and are packed even fuller with people, animals, and baggage.
On another run, I thought about international aid. Many argue there’s little to show for the money spent. Jeffrey Sachs, in The End of Poverty agrees there’s little to show, but counters it’s because the developed world has spent almost nothing. Take another look at CV. It’s one of the great African examples in governance, literacy, health, and other indicators. Then check out statistics the Economist compiled for 2009. CV is the second largest recipient, per capita, of development aid, dwarfing most countries.
Does it get that money because it’s well-run, or is it well-run because of the money? Without a doubt it’s both, but imagine what it could be like if the developed world truly tried to help those developing countries willing to make an honest effort, of which there are many. We could see a bevy of African (or Asian or Central/South American) success stories instead of a handful. As Sachs noted, we’ve promised the money, but with only a few exceptions (Sweden, Luxemburg, among others), have lied. The US promised around 0.7% of our GNP, but as of the book’s printing it stood at less than 0.2%.
On another run I approached a dog on a dirt track connecting my small village to a tiny conglomeration of houses in a lava field dotted with agricultural plots. In the US perhaps I might’ve wondered who owned the dog, thought about petting it, noted its breed, etc. Here, I thought of two things: where’s the nearest rock to throw if it tries to bite, and that I might have to kill it. Fortunately it was more scared than me, and ran.
After 18 months I’ve grown much more confident with dogs and aware of the signs they make. Another dog recently growled at me on the same road. I made a loud psst sound, pretended to throw a rock, and after jogging by unmolested, tossed one in its vicinity for good measure. Like bathing with half a gallon of water or learning to love plain rice with ketchup, dealing with strays is another skill I’ve picked up in the developing world.
As always, thanks for reading. Most of the economic arguments are half-baked. So was Econ. 102. Clearly I made no attempt at paragraph transitions. Sorry Mr. Soule. Happy Carnival!
It feels odd to, after basically just arriving from America, take another vacation. Us Americans aren’t used to 24 vacation days a year, at which our European friends scoff. I wonder why they have a higher quality of life? Shouldn’t all that dirty awful miserable socialism make them unhappy? Anyway, Christmas and Carnival only come once a year, however, and one of PC’s intentions is for volunteers to get to know the surrounding area.
For non-island PCVs that involves crossing borders, but for us, it’s visiting other islands. I would prefer the former, but that geography which unfortunately makes economic development very difficult, gives rise to more cultural diversity than similarly sized non-island nations. It makes CV an interesting tourist destination, but the interisland transport isn’t up to snuff.
Running tends to get ideas flowing. On a recent run I was thinking about the typically American thought that the market solves all problems. This is a big argument against raising any tax in Michigan, my state. God forbid we put a minimal tax on bottled water, which destroys our environment in several ways (plastic bottles are petroleum products, for example), is often no healthier or worse than tap water, and is certainly more expensive. We don’t need to fund firefighters, the market will provide them. “Hi, we’ve come to save your house. We’ll need an advance of $10,000 please. You don’t have it? That’s too bad. It looks like it was a nice house.”
The developing world is a good place to see the market in action, where the state is often weak and underfunded. The developing world does produce myriad innovations which come about despite, or due to, the constrained environment. That said, no one would hail as great market successes developing world education, healthcare, and transport. An economist might argue that those systems in existence in the developing world serve consumers’ needs as well as possible given the lack of money.
When I was in the hospital in Ghana, I went to the best facility in Accra, the capital. I paid about $200 for three days, a trifle for me but an impossible sum for all the people who suffered in the public clinics and hospitals for lack of money. The market solution for an American visitor is great, but for most of the 18-20 million Ghanaians, it effectively doesn’t exist.
You can compare CV which has a relatively strong state, to a plethora of W. African neighbors which don’t. Here public transport (often private cars with a license to carry passengers) is pretty well regulated. You need insurance, up-to-date maintenance, license, etc. Transport’s not great, but it’s not the race to the bottom you see in other countries, where cars are death boxes on wheels, held together with duct tape and wire, certainly have no pollution controls, and are packed even fuller with people, animals, and baggage.
On another run, I thought about international aid. Many argue there’s little to show for the money spent. Jeffrey Sachs, in The End of Poverty agrees there’s little to show, but counters it’s because the developed world has spent almost nothing. Take another look at CV. It’s one of the great African examples in governance, literacy, health, and other indicators. Then check out statistics the Economist compiled for 2009. CV is the second largest recipient, per capita, of development aid, dwarfing most countries.
Does it get that money because it’s well-run, or is it well-run because of the money? Without a doubt it’s both, but imagine what it could be like if the developed world truly tried to help those developing countries willing to make an honest effort, of which there are many. We could see a bevy of African (or Asian or Central/South American) success stories instead of a handful. As Sachs noted, we’ve promised the money, but with only a few exceptions (Sweden, Luxemburg, among others), have lied. The US promised around 0.7% of our GNP, but as of the book’s printing it stood at less than 0.2%.
On another run I approached a dog on a dirt track connecting my small village to a tiny conglomeration of houses in a lava field dotted with agricultural plots. In the US perhaps I might’ve wondered who owned the dog, thought about petting it, noted its breed, etc. Here, I thought of two things: where’s the nearest rock to throw if it tries to bite, and that I might have to kill it. Fortunately it was more scared than me, and ran.
After 18 months I’ve grown much more confident with dogs and aware of the signs they make. Another dog recently growled at me on the same road. I made a loud psst sound, pretended to throw a rock, and after jogging by unmolested, tossed one in its vicinity for good measure. Like bathing with half a gallon of water or learning to love plain rice with ketchup, dealing with strays is another skill I’ve picked up in the developing world.
As always, thanks for reading. Most of the economic arguments are half-baked. So was Econ. 102. Clearly I made no attempt at paragraph transitions. Sorry Mr. Soule. Happy Carnival!
24 January 2010
Aiung
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.
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.
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.
04 December 2009
Weekend Update
Once again it’s been awhile. It’s mostly because I’m enjoying myself at site and don’t leave often. Some of the recent weekends I’ve gone to other sites, but rarely to São Filipe where I have internet access.
It’s turned cold, with frost on Nov. 1. The word in Kriolu for frost is….frost! I’m pretty stupid, and selected the coldest site in CV. Of course like any good Michigander I’m used to cold, but a nice, solid house with a heater is different from a shoddy cement block box with wooden doors and windows which don’t fit too tightly in their frames. This makes my house an attractive site for mice, though I don’t think they found the rat trap and strategically placed poison hospitable.
The temperature drop also brings cold and flu season. I’ve had a cold for about three weeks. I’ve tried every remedy: chicken soup, decongestants, ibuprofen, sleep, exercise, lime tea, oranges, vitamins, at least four cups of coffee daily, the local favorite garlic and orange peel tea, among others. But with the dengue epidemic finally diminishing, I count myself lucky to only have a cold. The fight against dengue, though, has been inspiring. An elderly Cape Verdean told me she hadn’t seen the populace working together since independence, when the country built itself from scratch, sweat, blood, and suffering.
Any illness pretty much hits everyone. There doesn’t seem to be much knowledge of how illness is transmitted. The society is more communal than what I knew in the United States of Brockton. I really like that, though. At a party there might be one cup of water for ten people. At the winery recently, one of the guys reheated a plate of rice and beans, tossed a few spoons in, and we shared. It’s a public health nightmare, but nice at the same time.
I enjoy being basically the only Westerner, aside from the tourists. The nearest PCV is a three hour + hike to Mosteiros. It’s easy to use English-speakers as a crutch, but now I speak Kriolu about 95% of the time. I’m picking up a lot of “terra terra” Kriolu, old school. Most people in Chã das Caldeiras know to dumb it down for me, but still after 16 months, I learn things every day. Portuguese is coming along, and I’ve half-heartedly started studying French.
I know I’ve been in CV too long though. I think of Praia as the big city (pop. 150,000), with every imaginable resource, activity, possibility. Calú e Angela is the greatest grocery store in the world. Moura bus company is the most efficient and well-run public transport outfit around. Cockpit is the coolest discoteca ever. Refried cachupa is the greatest breakfast food invented.
Sometimes, when I try to conjure memories of America, I only catch fleeting glances. An image appears in my head, and disappears like the dusts of the bruma seca. I attempt to remember Meijer, or snow falling on Bramble, or a paved four lane highway, and I seem to see them in my peripheral vision, but trying to focus, they vanish.
I suppose if you’re still reading, you’d like to know what I’ve been doing. When the dengue epidemic hit, I started working with the “Sanitation Agents” from our village health post. We measured water tanks in Cabeça Fundão and Chã (anywhere from 1,000 to 240,000 L), and treated them with either a larvacide, “abate,” for drinking water tanks, or with petrol for unused tanks or ones for livestock. We did a sensitization campaign, explaining the cause, symptoms, and treatment of dengue. Due to the temperature, Chã didn’t have too many cases. Praia and São Filipe suffered the most.
I’ve been working on another sensitization campaign, for a composting toilet the water utility built for a local family. Incidentally, it’s a polygamist family with an incredibly charismatic father, four women, and 46 kids. I really like the family though it poses several contradictions. The father, by any local measurement, is a great dad. The kids are fed, clothed, educated, and loved. The women aren’t beaten and the father doesn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. Everyone appears happy. On the other hand, you want to criticize the irresponsibility of so many children. It could become somewhat of a contest. If you already have 46, why not go for 50?
Many, many men have kids with multiple women in CV, often ignoring them or only offering minimal support. Driving to Chã with some PCVs a few weeks ago, our driver sheepishly admitted having 20 kids, and couldn’t seem to remember how many houses (and thus families) he had.
In the end, the proposal I wrote for the primary school won’t be used. The local association, along with a Danish NGO, developed their own proposal which admittedly is better. It’s not important, though, as long as the school gets the needed repairs. There are certainly opportunities for other projects, with myriad donors just waiting for good proposals.
Anyway, that’s a lot of writing, so I’ll stop here. Obrigado.
It’s turned cold, with frost on Nov. 1. The word in Kriolu for frost is….frost! I’m pretty stupid, and selected the coldest site in CV. Of course like any good Michigander I’m used to cold, but a nice, solid house with a heater is different from a shoddy cement block box with wooden doors and windows which don’t fit too tightly in their frames. This makes my house an attractive site for mice, though I don’t think they found the rat trap and strategically placed poison hospitable.
The temperature drop also brings cold and flu season. I’ve had a cold for about three weeks. I’ve tried every remedy: chicken soup, decongestants, ibuprofen, sleep, exercise, lime tea, oranges, vitamins, at least four cups of coffee daily, the local favorite garlic and orange peel tea, among others. But with the dengue epidemic finally diminishing, I count myself lucky to only have a cold. The fight against dengue, though, has been inspiring. An elderly Cape Verdean told me she hadn’t seen the populace working together since independence, when the country built itself from scratch, sweat, blood, and suffering.
Any illness pretty much hits everyone. There doesn’t seem to be much knowledge of how illness is transmitted. The society is more communal than what I knew in the United States of Brockton. I really like that, though. At a party there might be one cup of water for ten people. At the winery recently, one of the guys reheated a plate of rice and beans, tossed a few spoons in, and we shared. It’s a public health nightmare, but nice at the same time.
I enjoy being basically the only Westerner, aside from the tourists. The nearest PCV is a three hour + hike to Mosteiros. It’s easy to use English-speakers as a crutch, but now I speak Kriolu about 95% of the time. I’m picking up a lot of “terra terra” Kriolu, old school. Most people in Chã das Caldeiras know to dumb it down for me, but still after 16 months, I learn things every day. Portuguese is coming along, and I’ve half-heartedly started studying French.
I know I’ve been in CV too long though. I think of Praia as the big city (pop. 150,000), with every imaginable resource, activity, possibility. Calú e Angela is the greatest grocery store in the world. Moura bus company is the most efficient and well-run public transport outfit around. Cockpit is the coolest discoteca ever. Refried cachupa is the greatest breakfast food invented.
Sometimes, when I try to conjure memories of America, I only catch fleeting glances. An image appears in my head, and disappears like the dusts of the bruma seca. I attempt to remember Meijer, or snow falling on Bramble, or a paved four lane highway, and I seem to see them in my peripheral vision, but trying to focus, they vanish.
I suppose if you’re still reading, you’d like to know what I’ve been doing. When the dengue epidemic hit, I started working with the “Sanitation Agents” from our village health post. We measured water tanks in Cabeça Fundão and Chã (anywhere from 1,000 to 240,000 L), and treated them with either a larvacide, “abate,” for drinking water tanks, or with petrol for unused tanks or ones for livestock. We did a sensitization campaign, explaining the cause, symptoms, and treatment of dengue. Due to the temperature, Chã didn’t have too many cases. Praia and São Filipe suffered the most.
I’ve been working on another sensitization campaign, for a composting toilet the water utility built for a local family. Incidentally, it’s a polygamist family with an incredibly charismatic father, four women, and 46 kids. I really like the family though it poses several contradictions. The father, by any local measurement, is a great dad. The kids are fed, clothed, educated, and loved. The women aren’t beaten and the father doesn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. Everyone appears happy. On the other hand, you want to criticize the irresponsibility of so many children. It could become somewhat of a contest. If you already have 46, why not go for 50?
Many, many men have kids with multiple women in CV, often ignoring them or only offering minimal support. Driving to Chã with some PCVs a few weeks ago, our driver sheepishly admitted having 20 kids, and couldn’t seem to remember how many houses (and thus families) he had.
In the end, the proposal I wrote for the primary school won’t be used. The local association, along with a Danish NGO, developed their own proposal which admittedly is better. It’s not important, though, as long as the school gets the needed repairs. There are certainly opportunities for other projects, with myriad donors just waiting for good proposals.
Anyway, that’s a lot of writing, so I’ll stop here. Obrigado.
19 October 2009
Lack of Creativity
I had a pretty solid weekend in Mosteiros. Several of us PCVs got together more or less informally. I hiked down from Chã. The weekend pretty much epitomized the “Beach Corps” reputation of Cape Verde. As an aside, an RPCV who visited last week convincingly argued against the “Cape Verde isn’t real PC” line, saying that while in many mainland countries surviving for two years is an accomplishment, in Cape Verde, since living’s not too difficult we’re expected to do relatively serious work.
So anyway, we swam, ate delicious lobsters which a neighbor gave us, and in general relaxed. It was pretty much the perfect weekend. Our opinion of Mosteiros definitely improved.
In São Filipe on Friday, standing outside of the Shell, I witnessed a strange occurrence. To my left I heard a car horn blaring, more than normal. A newish, dark blue Audi or Volkswagen SUV came racing down the street. I noticed the driver’s side window was shattered, and disturbingly, the driver’s left arm covered in blood. The story is everywhere now, and it seems pretty clear it was a conflict between rivals in the drug trade. There were reports of several arrests, and last night on the road we saw a police officer with an AK-47 pulling over cars, which may or may not have been related.
Anyway, I guess I don’t really have much to say other than that. Hmmm. Yep.
So anyway, we swam, ate delicious lobsters which a neighbor gave us, and in general relaxed. It was pretty much the perfect weekend. Our opinion of Mosteiros definitely improved.
In São Filipe on Friday, standing outside of the Shell, I witnessed a strange occurrence. To my left I heard a car horn blaring, more than normal. A newish, dark blue Audi or Volkswagen SUV came racing down the street. I noticed the driver’s side window was shattered, and disturbingly, the driver’s left arm covered in blood. The story is everywhere now, and it seems pretty clear it was a conflict between rivals in the drug trade. There were reports of several arrests, and last night on the road we saw a police officer with an AK-47 pulling over cars, which may or may not have been related.
Anyway, I guess I don’t really have much to say other than that. Hmmm. Yep.
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