The 2011 IKURU census, otherwise known as a tour of Nampula´s seediest hostels, like the epic Golden Anchor in Namialo or the Cave Negra (Black Cave) in Malema, was an immense job of about three weeks in the field (bush). We ran on fumes mostly, getting 4-6 hours of sleep, driving three to eight hours a day on terrible dirt roads/goat paths in a beat up Toyota Hillux that was more dead than alive. But we completed about 90% of the planned job, and are now hard at work organizing the massive amount of data to please the various interested parties.
It was great traveling with four Mozambicans. My Portuguese got much better, and I learned lots of Mozambican slang. Lisboa and Lagres are big conversationalists, so we had lively debates about politics, news, life, education, work. I learned a lot about Mozambican life, customs, beliefs. All of my colleagues believe in healers, witches, omens, spells, magic potions, and more. I learned a meal is not a meal without meat. We ate shrimp, dried and fresher than fresh, crab, rockfish, can after can of sardines, lots of chicken, goat, a suckling pig and an adult pig, and gazelle.
Our biggest problems were car-related. In Malema the mechanic first asked for 3,500mts ($100). We got him down to 1,500, still a rip-off, of which 500 he shared with the first “mechanic” called. We were 9 hours late to our meeting as a result of several occurrences, like taking forever to make French fries for breakfast, charging an already charged car battery, chasing down a mechanic, waiting for him to BS to earn more money and invent problems to solve, negotiating or rather begging him to lower the price and forget that the car has USAID plastered all over it and a white dude in the passenger seat. To top it off, he didn´t have a receipt, and said he would only get us one for 200mts, or about $6, which is absurd of course. We paid out of pocket for the work, knowing full well that without an official receipt a reimbursement is unlikely. These districts where we travel don´t have ATMs, but we don´t carry much money in case of theft, and we pay out of pocket hoping accounting will have paid our lodging and meal advances or reimbursements.
On the return trip from Iapaca, around 1900, after chasing a rabbit for dinner in the car, we saw sparks fly from under the hood. Lisboa stopped the car, popped the hood, and I saw that the bar normally screwed down to hold the battery popped loose and the fuse cover nowhere to be found. Not only did the mechanic screw us on price, which should have been 800-1,000mts, but he didn´t screw down the battery. As a consequence, the wire connected to the positive terminal was severed and the battery was bouncing around the engine compartment.
This is criminal negligence. A sparking battery could´ve set the engine aflame, and as there often aren´t gas stations in the districts, we had several 20L gas cans in the bed. As it was, we were hung out to dry in the middle of nowhere with no hope of a mechanic, and possibly with large animals roaming in the bushes.
Lagres cut some of the wire securing the grill and used it to wire the battery cable back together. The nut holding the bar in place was lost in the engine compartment, so Abel cut several lengths of the rope holding the tarp in the bed in place, which Lisboa and Lagres used to tie the battery in place, knowing full well that a plastic rope in a toasty engine compartment wrapped around an acidy battery isn´t a great solution. But graças a Deus (thank God) we made it to Malema, to continue limping along.
Traveling in rural Nampula made me forget to ask certain questions, like:
Is this towel clean?
Is this water safe to drink?
Did the cook wash his hands?
Can I go this way?
Is this a road?
Should I eat this?
Do you have soap/toilet paper?
Are these eggs cage-free?
Where´s the nearest WiFi hotspot?
Why?
Is there a gas station around here?
What is that smell?
What kind of meat is this?
Is this a urinal or a shower?
And finally some notable quotes from the IKURU survey:
Há um discurso sobre a ponte (There is a discussion about the bridge, ie “We don´t know if the bridge still exists.”
Esta discoteca cheira de peixe seco (This disco smells like dried fish)
28 April 2011
05 April 2011
Qual é a cena em Nampula?
The last few weeks have been extremely busy with work. My first assignment in Nampula is to co-supervise a survey of a 20,000 member farmers cooperative. The first week and a half a colleague and I ran between three offices editing the survey to the liking of various partners, all of which have different perspectives and goals for it. Eventually we whittled it down from seven pages to two surveys of two pages each, both much more focused and objective than the original.
In parallel we tried to work out logistics, like arranging a car, getting money in advance to pay food and lodging expenses, scheduling meetings with associations and forums (comprised of 5-15 associations), and coordinating with field technicians.
Finally on 29/03/11 we got into the field with our three survey takers. We traveled approximately 700km over six days almost entirely on awful dirt roads and what seemed to be goat trails. It can take two hours to go less than 50km. We have to hit nine districts (like counties) in three weeks, about 29 forums, 282 associations, and 30 women´s groups.
Travel takes a toll, driving sometimes six hours a day on jarring roads, sweating in 90-100º heat, sleeping 4-6 hours in whatever lodging is available, often not eating lunch. Once, before heading to Moma from Angoche, we asked a man we on the road which of two possible routes was better. Not accustomed to speaking Portuguese, and wanting to sound formal, he said, "There is a discussion about the bridge on that route," ie "We don´t know if the bridge still exists." We elected the other route, which involved one earthen bridge and crossing a stream.
On the other hand, it´s great talking to the farmers, seeing so much of rural Nampula Province, getting to know my four colleagues, speaking Portuguese almost exclusively, eating incredible seafood, going places foreigners or even most Mozambicans never go. The task is daunting, but it´s much better than sitting around at my last job wondering when I would next have something to do.
On Friday we head out again, for around 10 days, to hopefully finish the survey. After that analyzing the data and writing reports and catching up on work that should´ve been done but was over which the survey took precedence.
Anyway, thanks for reading. Osukuru!
In parallel we tried to work out logistics, like arranging a car, getting money in advance to pay food and lodging expenses, scheduling meetings with associations and forums (comprised of 5-15 associations), and coordinating with field technicians.
Finally on 29/03/11 we got into the field with our three survey takers. We traveled approximately 700km over six days almost entirely on awful dirt roads and what seemed to be goat trails. It can take two hours to go less than 50km. We have to hit nine districts (like counties) in three weeks, about 29 forums, 282 associations, and 30 women´s groups.
Travel takes a toll, driving sometimes six hours a day on jarring roads, sweating in 90-100º heat, sleeping 4-6 hours in whatever lodging is available, often not eating lunch. Once, before heading to Moma from Angoche, we asked a man we on the road which of two possible routes was better. Not accustomed to speaking Portuguese, and wanting to sound formal, he said, "There is a discussion about the bridge on that route," ie "We don´t know if the bridge still exists." We elected the other route, which involved one earthen bridge and crossing a stream.
On the other hand, it´s great talking to the farmers, seeing so much of rural Nampula Province, getting to know my four colleagues, speaking Portuguese almost exclusively, eating incredible seafood, going places foreigners or even most Mozambicans never go. The task is daunting, but it´s much better than sitting around at my last job wondering when I would next have something to do.
On Friday we head out again, for around 10 days, to hopefully finish the survey. After that analyzing the data and writing reports and catching up on work that should´ve been done but was over which the survey took precedence.
Anyway, thanks for reading. Osukuru!
09 March 2011
Updates, like a 1,100 km move...
Here are some things that happened recently:
-I celebrated a birthday and prepared to move to Nampula, in northern Mozambique. The other volunteers and our friends sent me off in style, though it was very hard leaving them after we´ve become so close in the last six months. Peace Corps really is the best America has to offer the world.
-I left my going away party to witness a caesarian section at a local hospital. The baby and mother were fine, and I was impressed by the doctors´ skill and professionalism. I returned less than an hour later to find my food ready.
-I tried to mail my grandparents a letter. It cost 92 meticais (singular: metical, MZN, or mt), about $3.00, to mail internationally. I had a 100 metical note and no coins, which have denominations of 0.5, 1, 2, 5, and 10 meticais. The smaller notes are 20, 50, 100, and 200 meticais. Anyway, the postal worker informed me the post office only accepted exact change, and after I admitted I didn´t have it, she gave me back the letter. Sorry Grandma and Grandpa!
-Driving approximately 200km to the airport to fly to Nampula, we were stopped twice by the police. My colleague, in a rush to leave Chimoio, forgot his identity card. You always need lots of documentation for official business: visas, bank accounts, ID cards, etc. The police are not equipped with computers to check your insurance status if you don´t have proof in the car.
To facilitate the continuation of our journey without identification and for not respecting the speed limit, it was strongly encouraged that we contribute 400 meticais at the first stop and 200 meticais at the second ($20 in total). Or the car could have been impounded and my colleague fined perhaps 10x as much.
At some point in this adventure, my colleague´s wife gave birth. Congratulations!
-I moved into a posh fully furnished apartment in Nampula, complete with such amenities as AC, hot running water, a refrigerator, microwave, Panini maker, gas oven, television, and maid.
While aside from the maid these things may seem mundane, for almost two years in Cape Verde I lived in a concrete box which featured a bed with moldy mattress, plastic table with four chairs, gas oven, 8,000 liter rainwater catchment tank which had to last ten months for three people, and no hope of electricity.
While I certainly appreciate the new digs, I still prefer the country to the city, at least in Africa, even if it means living in a concrete box with no electricity, running water, or internet access. I don´t anticipate moving to Webberville or Bath once back in Michigan, however.
Anyway thanks for reading. I´ll try to up my blogging in the few remaining months.
-I celebrated a birthday and prepared to move to Nampula, in northern Mozambique. The other volunteers and our friends sent me off in style, though it was very hard leaving them after we´ve become so close in the last six months. Peace Corps really is the best America has to offer the world.
-I left my going away party to witness a caesarian section at a local hospital. The baby and mother were fine, and I was impressed by the doctors´ skill and professionalism. I returned less than an hour later to find my food ready.
-I tried to mail my grandparents a letter. It cost 92 meticais (singular: metical, MZN, or mt), about $3.00, to mail internationally. I had a 100 metical note and no coins, which have denominations of 0.5, 1, 2, 5, and 10 meticais. The smaller notes are 20, 50, 100, and 200 meticais. Anyway, the postal worker informed me the post office only accepted exact change, and after I admitted I didn´t have it, she gave me back the letter. Sorry Grandma and Grandpa!
-Driving approximately 200km to the airport to fly to Nampula, we were stopped twice by the police. My colleague, in a rush to leave Chimoio, forgot his identity card. You always need lots of documentation for official business: visas, bank accounts, ID cards, etc. The police are not equipped with computers to check your insurance status if you don´t have proof in the car.
To facilitate the continuation of our journey without identification and for not respecting the speed limit, it was strongly encouraged that we contribute 400 meticais at the first stop and 200 meticais at the second ($20 in total). Or the car could have been impounded and my colleague fined perhaps 10x as much.
At some point in this adventure, my colleague´s wife gave birth. Congratulations!
-I moved into a posh fully furnished apartment in Nampula, complete with such amenities as AC, hot running water, a refrigerator, microwave, Panini maker, gas oven, television, and maid.
While aside from the maid these things may seem mundane, for almost two years in Cape Verde I lived in a concrete box which featured a bed with moldy mattress, plastic table with four chairs, gas oven, 8,000 liter rainwater catchment tank which had to last ten months for three people, and no hope of electricity.
While I certainly appreciate the new digs, I still prefer the country to the city, at least in Africa, even if it means living in a concrete box with no electricity, running water, or internet access. I don´t anticipate moving to Webberville or Bath once back in Michigan, however.
Anyway thanks for reading. I´ll try to up my blogging in the few remaining months.
15 February 2011
It only took 6 months!
I’ve received several requests for blog posts from Mozambique (Moz). The requesters clearly didn’t follow my questionably interesting blog from Cape Verde (CV). To reflect the change of location, I’ve changed the name from “Sunburned in Cape Verde,” to “Maningue Nice in Mozambique.” Maningue is kind of like “very” in Mozambican Portuguese. I´m still as susceptible to sunburns as ever. They can be maningue bad if you know what I´m saying...
To bring you up to date, I finished two years of service in CV as a Small Enterprise Development Peace Corps (SED) Volunteer (PCV), and then flew to Mozambique to serve as a Food Security Peace Corps Response Volunteer (PCRV) for nine months, ending in May 2011. Both are Lusophone (Portuguese-speaking, like Anglophone or Francophone), though Mozambicans commonly speak Portuguese due to the myriad and often not mutually intelligible dialects.
I’ve been in Moz nearly 6 months. I´ve clearly been lazy about blogging but hope to turn over a new leaf and post shorter stuff once a week or so. I´m pretty much used to living in Mozambique, after two years in CV. There I lived in one of the most rural PCV sites. In Moz I live in one of the bigger cities, Manica Province capital Chimoio, larger than Praia the capital of CV. Maputo, the capital of Moz has about 2 million inhabitants, four times CV.
I found myself missing CV at lot at first. Living in a city I don’t get a great handle on Moz and Mozambicans. Chimoio could be any mid-sized African city. From what I`ve seen over the last few years, the heart of a developing country is in the rural areas. It makes sense, as these are mainly agrarian countries.
Living in a CV village of 800, I got to know the people, made friends, understood how they lived. People here seem serious about education and development of the country, which has immense potential. After decades of war, Moz wants to avoid conflict. It´s been through too much. Mozambicans are generally open and interested, though city folk in tend to be more inverted, whether in Moz, CV, or the US. I wish I lived in a rural area. Wherever I go, I attract attention as, like the Peace Corps Medical Officer in CV called me, “a very white man,” or “mzungu” in local dialect.
Everything I do, no matter how mundane, is strange and/or hilarious to some Mozambicans, as a mzungu. Running? Outrageous. Eating in the market with normal Mozambicans? Unexpected (“High risk of contamination,” according to my supervisor. “The shittiest place I´ve ever eaten,” according to another PCV who has traveled widely). Riding in a “chapa” (Toyota minivan with 30 people unbelievably crammed in)? Absurd. In general this doesn´t bother me much, though the assumption I´m rich does.
I work for an organization called AgriFUTURO which seeks to increase agricultural competitiveness in Moz through access to credit, “modern” farming techniques, technical assistance, access to markets, linking value chain stakeholders. USAID funds the project, implemented by several organizations.
The September food riots in Maputo and Chimoio highlighted the importance of food security, as the cost of living continues to rise. At least 10 protesters in Maputo and three in Chimoio were killed. I´d been in Moz two weeks. Luckily things calmed down after a few days.
I’ve noticed Moz is quieter than CV. Cape Verdeans are a vibrant and expressive people, always looking to celebrate. People look for excuses to dance or drink or play music. A child´s first birthday is reason to party until sunrise. CV is renowned for music. I could count on a concert every month or so in São Filipe, a town of 15,000. Chimoio, with 200,000, hasn´t had one yet. Chimoio has one discoteca (Coqueiro), São Filipe had at least eight (Alfredo´s, Faixa de Terra, Chaqrinha, Casa de Padja, Brava, Fogo em Chama, Casa Cinema, Mar Azul, and more). By the end of service, finally learning to dance well enough, I looked forward to nearly weekly discotecas or dances.
All right I´ll leave it at that. I just wanna dance! Thanks for reading and I´ll try to get better about posting.
To bring you up to date, I finished two years of service in CV as a Small Enterprise Development Peace Corps (SED) Volunteer (PCV), and then flew to Mozambique to serve as a Food Security Peace Corps Response Volunteer (PCRV) for nine months, ending in May 2011. Both are Lusophone (Portuguese-speaking, like Anglophone or Francophone), though Mozambicans commonly speak Portuguese due to the myriad and often not mutually intelligible dialects.
I’ve been in Moz nearly 6 months. I´ve clearly been lazy about blogging but hope to turn over a new leaf and post shorter stuff once a week or so. I´m pretty much used to living in Mozambique, after two years in CV. There I lived in one of the most rural PCV sites. In Moz I live in one of the bigger cities, Manica Province capital Chimoio, larger than Praia the capital of CV. Maputo, the capital of Moz has about 2 million inhabitants, four times CV.
I found myself missing CV at lot at first. Living in a city I don’t get a great handle on Moz and Mozambicans. Chimoio could be any mid-sized African city. From what I`ve seen over the last few years, the heart of a developing country is in the rural areas. It makes sense, as these are mainly agrarian countries.
Living in a CV village of 800, I got to know the people, made friends, understood how they lived. People here seem serious about education and development of the country, which has immense potential. After decades of war, Moz wants to avoid conflict. It´s been through too much. Mozambicans are generally open and interested, though city folk in tend to be more inverted, whether in Moz, CV, or the US. I wish I lived in a rural area. Wherever I go, I attract attention as, like the Peace Corps Medical Officer in CV called me, “a very white man,” or “mzungu” in local dialect.
Everything I do, no matter how mundane, is strange and/or hilarious to some Mozambicans, as a mzungu. Running? Outrageous. Eating in the market with normal Mozambicans? Unexpected (“High risk of contamination,” according to my supervisor. “The shittiest place I´ve ever eaten,” according to another PCV who has traveled widely). Riding in a “chapa” (Toyota minivan with 30 people unbelievably crammed in)? Absurd. In general this doesn´t bother me much, though the assumption I´m rich does.
I work for an organization called AgriFUTURO which seeks to increase agricultural competitiveness in Moz through access to credit, “modern” farming techniques, technical assistance, access to markets, linking value chain stakeholders. USAID funds the project, implemented by several organizations.
The September food riots in Maputo and Chimoio highlighted the importance of food security, as the cost of living continues to rise. At least 10 protesters in Maputo and three in Chimoio were killed. I´d been in Moz two weeks. Luckily things calmed down after a few days.
I’ve noticed Moz is quieter than CV. Cape Verdeans are a vibrant and expressive people, always looking to celebrate. People look for excuses to dance or drink or play music. A child´s first birthday is reason to party until sunrise. CV is renowned for music. I could count on a concert every month or so in São Filipe, a town of 15,000. Chimoio, with 200,000, hasn´t had one yet. Chimoio has one discoteca (Coqueiro), São Filipe had at least eight (Alfredo´s, Faixa de Terra, Chaqrinha, Casa de Padja, Brava, Fogo em Chama, Casa Cinema, Mar Azul, and more). By the end of service, finally learning to dance well enough, I looked forward to nearly weekly discotecas or dances.
All right I´ll leave it at that. I just wanna dance! Thanks for reading and I´ll try to get better about posting.
16 August 2010
Djan Bai. Adeus Kabu Verdi. Ate proximu bes
Note: I started this awhile ago, but am finishing from Chã das Caldeiras. And now from São Filipe. And now from Lisbon.
I’m writing from Mosteiros, the second town on Fogo. Tuesday I made the three hour hike from a mile up to sea level, passing through fields of beans and vegetables, the Monte Velha protected forest, coffee plantations, citrus farms, and finally bananas and mangos. Jonny and Josh live here, the two closest PCVs to me. There are some in Cova Figueira who are around that close, but I don’t know the trail. There’s a good chance of hitching a ride there, however, as I recently did with two French tourists and a bus full of census workers celebrating a job well done.
Fortunately the mango season is (was) in full swing. They are big, meaty, sweet, and cheap. About five weigh two pounds, and cost around $0.08 each, yep, eight American cents. Unfortunately there’s really no mango preservation except for the odd jam. No mango juicers, mango canneries, mango drying, mango exporting. Over Christmas in Michigan I bought three flavorless mangoes for $2. We eat them excessively, putting them in every dish possible. Jonny made a spectacular mango chicken dish. I made bean burritos with mango salsa.
Cooking here is nice because you do everything from scratch. It’s simpler, healthier, and in my opinion, more enjoyable. Somehow a completely homemade tortilla or pumpkin pie tastes better than the store-bought equivalents (which certainly aren’t available on Fogo). That said I prefer store bought chicken to killing and plucking. Pigeons and baby goats, though, are totally worth the work.
Mosteiros, as most municipal capitals, has free WiFi which just reaches the PCV house. I’m taking advantage of this opportunity to figure out what to do with myself after CV. The only sure thing is going to mainland Africa. When I get back to Michigan, however, a big question mark remains. Should I stay with PC, but in a different country (sorry CV, but I’m leaving in August no matter what)? Should I go back to school? In what field? Should I get a “real job” like my classmates and friends? Doing what? Where? For how long? After two years in CV, where I’d hoped I’d figure it all out, I’m left with more questions than answers. PC has certainly opened doors, but which one to enter? If I enter one, will I come out to find the others closed?
I’ve learned a lot in CV, including two languages, a new culture, got to know a country I didn’t know existed. When I was at our Close of Service Conference a few weeks ago in Cidade Velha on Santiago, I realized the 26 remaining PCVs in my group (lost three to medical issues) constitute the best group of people I’ve had the pleasure to call my colleagues and friends. They’re the people who’ve helped me through what have often been the two unhappiest years of my life. They’ve given up all manner of things to try to help 500,000 people eking out a life on these rocks in the Atlantic.
I have an update on the job front: I accepted a job with Peace Corps Response in Mozambique, about as far as you can get from Cape Verde in Africa (it’s not personal). I’ll work as kind of a business consultant with an American NGO in food security, which is a huge development push there. Mozambique has a lot of potential but was severely set back by decades of war, first against the Portuguese for independence, and later between Mozambicans. I’m looking forward to a new adventure, improving my Portuguese, learning, helping. It’ll be a nine month stint starting in mid-August. Unfortunately I have to go directly from CV, but plan to make it home for Christmas.
Tuesday our masons started work on the first composting toilet. I’m lucky because many PCVs never see their projects get off the ground. Of course I’ve partnered with Luxembourg Development which fully funded the construction, which makes it a lot easier than applying for funds. We continue to battle one of our suppliers to deliver materials so the job can continue. I’m not sure he understands a contract is a legally binding agreement, and not fulfilling it risks a trip to the tribunal. Everyone’s tired of his excuses.
It’s time for the grape harvest, one of my favorite activities. With grapes come mangos, pomegranates, figs, quince, and apples. It officially started Monday, but won’t get going for a few days. For the workers, it can mean 6 am to midnight, or later. Once you’ve picked a grape, you have to de-stem it that day. Harvest time in the winery is sticky, wet, chilly, tiring, and full of bee stings. I love it.
Hopefully I’ll post more frequently this month, as I’ll have regular internet access to keep the project supervisor informed while in Europe. Fika kampion.
Update: I’m in Lisbon. I finished service in Cape Verde, said goodbye to Chã das Caldeiras, and began the journey to Moçambique. What I will do I can only ascertain from a brief document the recruiter sent weeks ago, as the real job description (and paper airline ticket!) didn’t arrive via diplomatic mail. They made me send several pieces of paper via DHL which cost about $100, or more than 25% of my monthly allowance. At least that arrived the next day!
I just got back from a pretty pathetic (it’s 11 pm) night on the town, typical of a PCV coming from one of the most rural sites in Cape Verde to an entirely modern European city in a matter of hours. I asked the receptionist where to get some food. She gave me directions which I half understood and immediately forgot. I wandered near the hotel until I didn’t feel safe anymore. Heading back, I noticed a gigantic mall across the street. Needing a new pair of running shoes, I crossed.
Going from the market in Praia to a modern mall isn’t easy. I went from stepping over chickens, clothes spilled from barrels onto the broken concrete, and lost children with no parents looking for them to a mall with Diesel, LaCoste, and Guess. My little jaunt to check out the mall turned into a several hour zombie walk. I went in and out of stores, amazed they had every size and prices marked. I walked past every restaurant in the food court at least four times, and there were more than ten. I bought a Twister at an ice cream stand. I spoke Portuguese and was understood. What began as a quest for a Portuguese meal led to a fast food pasta place with a plate of generic shrimp/mozzarella/whole wheat penne and a 0.50€ glass of wine (the same price as Coke, what a great country Portugal is).
What got me were the myriad choices. In Cape Verde it’s chicken or fish, Coke or Sprite, cachupa with or without fried egg. I couldn’t make decisions. This happened when I went home for Christmas. This brief layover in Lisbon (I depart for Moçambique tomorrow at 6 pm local time) will necessitate a return. It is truly a beautiful city but I’m not ready.
I just came from two liter (that’s half a gallon) bucket baths, rice and beans twice a day, wearing the same clothes for a week. I never minded that lifestyle but the difference between it and this ultramodern hotel is quite the jolt. I took a hot shower today for the first time since…Christmas? At least the hotel in Praia smelled funny, lost power at least once, and had the chintzy falling apart quality of many new Cape Verdean buildings. Here I have to insert the card into the wall for the lights to work. The television channels work. The receptionist isn’t obviously flirting with me (okay CV’s better in that regard).
It was sad to say goodbye to Chã. I left behind a lot of friends who were like family, one perhaps broken-hearted young lady, two jobs that got going at the end. Right when you hit your stride, you have to leave. It’s a common Peace Corps experience. You finally get the language, figure out how you fit in the culture and your community, begin to thrive. If nothing else, it makes me feel good about a two year period which included some of the unhappiest times of my life. All’s well that ends well, right?
I hope I can pick up in Moçambique where I left off in Cape Verde. It will be more difficult in many ways. True, I speak some Portuguese and understand a lot. I know a lot more about development work. But I’m going from one of the highest ranking African countries on the UN Human Development Index to one of the lowest (7th from the bottom). From a country with an HIV/AIDS rate of no more than 3% to 16% (the PC Welcome Book for Moçambique mentions that some of your coworkers will probably die during your service). People often joke that PC Cape Verde is “Beach Corps” or “Posh Corps.” I would, after two years, strongly disagree. However, no one would say the same about Moçambique.
I must apologize for this post (as for all the previous ones). It was a long time coming, and in the end is rather half-baked. I’ll try to continue from Moçambique if possible. If I’m in a regional capital, no problem. If I’m in a rural area…I’ll talk to you in nine months.
I’m writing from Mosteiros, the second town on Fogo. Tuesday I made the three hour hike from a mile up to sea level, passing through fields of beans and vegetables, the Monte Velha protected forest, coffee plantations, citrus farms, and finally bananas and mangos. Jonny and Josh live here, the two closest PCVs to me. There are some in Cova Figueira who are around that close, but I don’t know the trail. There’s a good chance of hitching a ride there, however, as I recently did with two French tourists and a bus full of census workers celebrating a job well done.
Fortunately the mango season is (was) in full swing. They are big, meaty, sweet, and cheap. About five weigh two pounds, and cost around $0.08 each, yep, eight American cents. Unfortunately there’s really no mango preservation except for the odd jam. No mango juicers, mango canneries, mango drying, mango exporting. Over Christmas in Michigan I bought three flavorless mangoes for $2. We eat them excessively, putting them in every dish possible. Jonny made a spectacular mango chicken dish. I made bean burritos with mango salsa.
Cooking here is nice because you do everything from scratch. It’s simpler, healthier, and in my opinion, more enjoyable. Somehow a completely homemade tortilla or pumpkin pie tastes better than the store-bought equivalents (which certainly aren’t available on Fogo). That said I prefer store bought chicken to killing and plucking. Pigeons and baby goats, though, are totally worth the work.
Mosteiros, as most municipal capitals, has free WiFi which just reaches the PCV house. I’m taking advantage of this opportunity to figure out what to do with myself after CV. The only sure thing is going to mainland Africa. When I get back to Michigan, however, a big question mark remains. Should I stay with PC, but in a different country (sorry CV, but I’m leaving in August no matter what)? Should I go back to school? In what field? Should I get a “real job” like my classmates and friends? Doing what? Where? For how long? After two years in CV, where I’d hoped I’d figure it all out, I’m left with more questions than answers. PC has certainly opened doors, but which one to enter? If I enter one, will I come out to find the others closed?
I’ve learned a lot in CV, including two languages, a new culture, got to know a country I didn’t know existed. When I was at our Close of Service Conference a few weeks ago in Cidade Velha on Santiago, I realized the 26 remaining PCVs in my group (lost three to medical issues) constitute the best group of people I’ve had the pleasure to call my colleagues and friends. They’re the people who’ve helped me through what have often been the two unhappiest years of my life. They’ve given up all manner of things to try to help 500,000 people eking out a life on these rocks in the Atlantic.
I have an update on the job front: I accepted a job with Peace Corps Response in Mozambique, about as far as you can get from Cape Verde in Africa (it’s not personal). I’ll work as kind of a business consultant with an American NGO in food security, which is a huge development push there. Mozambique has a lot of potential but was severely set back by decades of war, first against the Portuguese for independence, and later between Mozambicans. I’m looking forward to a new adventure, improving my Portuguese, learning, helping. It’ll be a nine month stint starting in mid-August. Unfortunately I have to go directly from CV, but plan to make it home for Christmas.
Tuesday our masons started work on the first composting toilet. I’m lucky because many PCVs never see their projects get off the ground. Of course I’ve partnered with Luxembourg Development which fully funded the construction, which makes it a lot easier than applying for funds. We continue to battle one of our suppliers to deliver materials so the job can continue. I’m not sure he understands a contract is a legally binding agreement, and not fulfilling it risks a trip to the tribunal. Everyone’s tired of his excuses.
It’s time for the grape harvest, one of my favorite activities. With grapes come mangos, pomegranates, figs, quince, and apples. It officially started Monday, but won’t get going for a few days. For the workers, it can mean 6 am to midnight, or later. Once you’ve picked a grape, you have to de-stem it that day. Harvest time in the winery is sticky, wet, chilly, tiring, and full of bee stings. I love it.
Hopefully I’ll post more frequently this month, as I’ll have regular internet access to keep the project supervisor informed while in Europe. Fika kampion.
Update: I’m in Lisbon. I finished service in Cape Verde, said goodbye to Chã das Caldeiras, and began the journey to Moçambique. What I will do I can only ascertain from a brief document the recruiter sent weeks ago, as the real job description (and paper airline ticket!) didn’t arrive via diplomatic mail. They made me send several pieces of paper via DHL which cost about $100, or more than 25% of my monthly allowance. At least that arrived the next day!
I just got back from a pretty pathetic (it’s 11 pm) night on the town, typical of a PCV coming from one of the most rural sites in Cape Verde to an entirely modern European city in a matter of hours. I asked the receptionist where to get some food. She gave me directions which I half understood and immediately forgot. I wandered near the hotel until I didn’t feel safe anymore. Heading back, I noticed a gigantic mall across the street. Needing a new pair of running shoes, I crossed.
Going from the market in Praia to a modern mall isn’t easy. I went from stepping over chickens, clothes spilled from barrels onto the broken concrete, and lost children with no parents looking for them to a mall with Diesel, LaCoste, and Guess. My little jaunt to check out the mall turned into a several hour zombie walk. I went in and out of stores, amazed they had every size and prices marked. I walked past every restaurant in the food court at least four times, and there were more than ten. I bought a Twister at an ice cream stand. I spoke Portuguese and was understood. What began as a quest for a Portuguese meal led to a fast food pasta place with a plate of generic shrimp/mozzarella/whole wheat penne and a 0.50€ glass of wine (the same price as Coke, what a great country Portugal is).
What got me were the myriad choices. In Cape Verde it’s chicken or fish, Coke or Sprite, cachupa with or without fried egg. I couldn’t make decisions. This happened when I went home for Christmas. This brief layover in Lisbon (I depart for Moçambique tomorrow at 6 pm local time) will necessitate a return. It is truly a beautiful city but I’m not ready.
I just came from two liter (that’s half a gallon) bucket baths, rice and beans twice a day, wearing the same clothes for a week. I never minded that lifestyle but the difference between it and this ultramodern hotel is quite the jolt. I took a hot shower today for the first time since…Christmas? At least the hotel in Praia smelled funny, lost power at least once, and had the chintzy falling apart quality of many new Cape Verdean buildings. Here I have to insert the card into the wall for the lights to work. The television channels work. The receptionist isn’t obviously flirting with me (okay CV’s better in that regard).
It was sad to say goodbye to Chã. I left behind a lot of friends who were like family, one perhaps broken-hearted young lady, two jobs that got going at the end. Right when you hit your stride, you have to leave. It’s a common Peace Corps experience. You finally get the language, figure out how you fit in the culture and your community, begin to thrive. If nothing else, it makes me feel good about a two year period which included some of the unhappiest times of my life. All’s well that ends well, right?
I hope I can pick up in Moçambique where I left off in Cape Verde. It will be more difficult in many ways. True, I speak some Portuguese and understand a lot. I know a lot more about development work. But I’m going from one of the highest ranking African countries on the UN Human Development Index to one of the lowest (7th from the bottom). From a country with an HIV/AIDS rate of no more than 3% to 16% (the PC Welcome Book for Moçambique mentions that some of your coworkers will probably die during your service). People often joke that PC Cape Verde is “Beach Corps” or “Posh Corps.” I would, after two years, strongly disagree. However, no one would say the same about Moçambique.
I must apologize for this post (as for all the previous ones). It was a long time coming, and in the end is rather half-baked. I’ll try to continue from Moçambique if possible. If I’m in a regional capital, no problem. If I’m in a rural area…I’ll talk to you in nine months.
Nhô São Filipe
Note: I planned to submit this to the PCV newsletter but for various reasons, among others my laziness, did not. I hope you enjoy and that I explained most of the Kriolu words.
Festa de Nhô São Filipe 2010
São Vicente and São Nicolau celebrate Carnival, Sal fills discotecas with tourists ti mantxi (until it’s time to wake up), and in Praia Gamboa (a yearly festival of music and stabbings) puts the fear in our safety and security officer’s heart. On Fogo, we celebrate Nhô São Filipe, a weeklong extravaganza ending in an escudo-less hangover 1 May.
Among other events, Nhô São Filipe 2010 offered a football tournament; cockfights; horse racing and skills competitions; Miss São Filipe 2010; and myriad musical acts like Face à Face, Kassav, Gilyto, and local zouk star/Chã das Caldeiras primary school director Timas. This year focused more on zouk than funáná, as two consecutive nights of Ferro Gaita in 2009 did not exactly get the crowd on its proverbial feet.
In late April 2010, like 2009, Cape Verdeans returned from Brockton in droves, requiring no less than three Praia to São Filipe TACV flights daily plus as many as Halcyon Air could manage. Dripping in jewelry, wearing the latest American fashions, and freely spending money no doubt earned through backbreaking factory or construction labor, the Foguenses took back their homeland. The festa’s famous excesses attracted a strong group of PCVs this year as well.
Much to everyone’s relief, the PCV visits went off without a single kasubodi (literally “cash or body,” ie give me your money or I stab you). Each day started late, with an audacious tour which visited nearly every cachupa restaurant over the week. Groups of PCVs then split off to nap, endure the searing São Filipe sun to go bidong (55 gal. barrels shipped from the States) shopping, or cool off at the beach. At dusk PCVs would make a valiant effort to organize dinner and evening refreshments. Around eleven the group traveled to the spacious Presidio, São Filipe’s main praça (plaza), for the night’s show. By five or six, with everyone exhausted and the music clearly done, the remaining PCVs trekked to their temporary residences to collapse on questionably clean mattresses, barely noticing the oppressive heat, flies, cockroaches, and mosquitoes.
The rectangular Presidio overlooks the sea, with Brava in the bruma seca (dry wind from the Sahara) obscured distance. In the front, perpendicular to the sea, the musicians performed on a vast stage. A fountain in the back and benches along the ocean side provided tired dancers a plethora of resting places. Booths selling pintxu (grilled pork), grogue (sugarcane death rum), Strela (CV’s national beer), and the odd sumo (juice) lined the other two sides, with a buzof (show-offish) bar in the far corner. The bathrooms, located under said bar, added to the charm, with several inches of urine rendering them unusable, except to people too drunk to care or men willing to urinate down the steps leading to the public health hazards. The police force efficiently readmitted partygoers wishing to relieve themselves in nearby back alleys.
São Filipe, aka Bila, that pretty and tranquil city by the sea features pastel sobrados (traditional Portuguese colonial architecture), picturesque praças, and cobblestone streets which only seem to go uphill. Bila, often proclaimed as Cape Verde’s cleanest city also suffered the highest per capita dengue rates in the country, worse than notoriously unkempt Praia. Only Porto Novo beats Bila in sleepy desertedness. In Bila the population waits for its American visa and the guaranteed riches which will allow it to build a mansion equipped with three meter security fence, ferocious dogs, and Hummer in the driveway.
With its provincial big city attitude and a multitude of young men unwillingly returned from America, in Bila a city losing the smallness which makes Cape Verde pleasant meets the worst of American culture. Only in São Filipe (and Mosteiros) will young men affectionately greet light skinned PCVs with the N word and espouse their loyalty to the Bloods, all in glorious Boston-accented English. On the flip side, after grogue binges and missteps with pikenas (girls…not quite girlfriends) they may express the desire to “shoot you in the f#@%ing head.”
One cannot, however, neglect Bila’s charms. The beautiful black sand Fonte de Bila beach attracts scores of youth during the summer, and will do so until the president of the Câmara (municipal government) and the delegado (delegate) of the MADRRM (ministry of agriculture and environment) divert it all for construction and votes. Djarfogo, a local art store and center of culture roasts the island’s best coffee and shows films provoking thoughtful conversation afterwards. Pipi’s Bar serves delicious Senegalese food, lifting up a beautiful culture often derided by locals. KATOBi.net, a liceu (high school) teacher’s website, chronicles local events and news, often in perfect ALUPEC Kriolu which would bring a smile to Lela’s face.
All in all Nhô São Filipe 2010 exceeded expectations. It proved fun and safe for PCVs and Bila itself. Hilario can sleep soundly until April 2011, when even more PCVs will surely venture to Fogo to partake in its most famous event.
Festa de Nhô São Filipe 2010
São Vicente and São Nicolau celebrate Carnival, Sal fills discotecas with tourists ti mantxi (until it’s time to wake up), and in Praia Gamboa (a yearly festival of music and stabbings) puts the fear in our safety and security officer’s heart. On Fogo, we celebrate Nhô São Filipe, a weeklong extravaganza ending in an escudo-less hangover 1 May.
Among other events, Nhô São Filipe 2010 offered a football tournament; cockfights; horse racing and skills competitions; Miss São Filipe 2010; and myriad musical acts like Face à Face, Kassav, Gilyto, and local zouk star/Chã das Caldeiras primary school director Timas. This year focused more on zouk than funáná, as two consecutive nights of Ferro Gaita in 2009 did not exactly get the crowd on its proverbial feet.
In late April 2010, like 2009, Cape Verdeans returned from Brockton in droves, requiring no less than three Praia to São Filipe TACV flights daily plus as many as Halcyon Air could manage. Dripping in jewelry, wearing the latest American fashions, and freely spending money no doubt earned through backbreaking factory or construction labor, the Foguenses took back their homeland. The festa’s famous excesses attracted a strong group of PCVs this year as well.
Much to everyone’s relief, the PCV visits went off without a single kasubodi (literally “cash or body,” ie give me your money or I stab you). Each day started late, with an audacious tour which visited nearly every cachupa restaurant over the week. Groups of PCVs then split off to nap, endure the searing São Filipe sun to go bidong (55 gal. barrels shipped from the States) shopping, or cool off at the beach. At dusk PCVs would make a valiant effort to organize dinner and evening refreshments. Around eleven the group traveled to the spacious Presidio, São Filipe’s main praça (plaza), for the night’s show. By five or six, with everyone exhausted and the music clearly done, the remaining PCVs trekked to their temporary residences to collapse on questionably clean mattresses, barely noticing the oppressive heat, flies, cockroaches, and mosquitoes.
The rectangular Presidio overlooks the sea, with Brava in the bruma seca (dry wind from the Sahara) obscured distance. In the front, perpendicular to the sea, the musicians performed on a vast stage. A fountain in the back and benches along the ocean side provided tired dancers a plethora of resting places. Booths selling pintxu (grilled pork), grogue (sugarcane death rum), Strela (CV’s national beer), and the odd sumo (juice) lined the other two sides, with a buzof (show-offish) bar in the far corner. The bathrooms, located under said bar, added to the charm, with several inches of urine rendering them unusable, except to people too drunk to care or men willing to urinate down the steps leading to the public health hazards. The police force efficiently readmitted partygoers wishing to relieve themselves in nearby back alleys.
São Filipe, aka Bila, that pretty and tranquil city by the sea features pastel sobrados (traditional Portuguese colonial architecture), picturesque praças, and cobblestone streets which only seem to go uphill. Bila, often proclaimed as Cape Verde’s cleanest city also suffered the highest per capita dengue rates in the country, worse than notoriously unkempt Praia. Only Porto Novo beats Bila in sleepy desertedness. In Bila the population waits for its American visa and the guaranteed riches which will allow it to build a mansion equipped with three meter security fence, ferocious dogs, and Hummer in the driveway.
With its provincial big city attitude and a multitude of young men unwillingly returned from America, in Bila a city losing the smallness which makes Cape Verde pleasant meets the worst of American culture. Only in São Filipe (and Mosteiros) will young men affectionately greet light skinned PCVs with the N word and espouse their loyalty to the Bloods, all in glorious Boston-accented English. On the flip side, after grogue binges and missteps with pikenas (girls…not quite girlfriends) they may express the desire to “shoot you in the f#@%ing head.”
One cannot, however, neglect Bila’s charms. The beautiful black sand Fonte de Bila beach attracts scores of youth during the summer, and will do so until the president of the Câmara (municipal government) and the delegado (delegate) of the MADRRM (ministry of agriculture and environment) divert it all for construction and votes. Djarfogo, a local art store and center of culture roasts the island’s best coffee and shows films provoking thoughtful conversation afterwards. Pipi’s Bar serves delicious Senegalese food, lifting up a beautiful culture often derided by locals. KATOBi.net, a liceu (high school) teacher’s website, chronicles local events and news, often in perfect ALUPEC Kriolu which would bring a smile to Lela’s face.
All in all Nhô São Filipe 2010 exceeded expectations. It proved fun and safe for PCVs and Bila itself. Hilario can sleep soundly until April 2011, when even more PCVs will surely venture to Fogo to partake in its most famous event.
19 April 2010
E ke la
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!
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!
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.
19 September 2009
Txuba txobi, txuba bedju
The rainy season (August to October-ish) is in full force. For me it’s not enjoyable, with thousands of flies in the house; everything damp, chilly, molding; not running much, staying in the house. Flies have an affinity for landing on one’s face, particularly the lips. Their cold, wet bodies scampering along every exposed centimeter of flesh never fails to disgust and annoy. Thankfully when the lights (candles) go out, they ascend to the ceiling and stay until morning.
My house like all others is a concrete box, whose benefits are price and ease/speed of construction. They’re cold in winter (it gets below 0º C, or 32 º F for you Americans and Brits ), leak, don’t hold paint well, take long to dry, and use imported cement and sand stolen from CV’s beaches and volcanoes. Doors and shutters (glass windows are a distinct luxury) are normally wooden, swelling in the rainy season making them difficult to open and close. In the dry season they shrink, making it easy for dust, vermin, bugs, and disreputable people to enter. With all that swelling and shrinking they don’t last long either.
Despite the negatives, the rainy season is essential. Whenever I get sick of the rains, I remind myself of the 100,000+ Cape Verdeans who starved to death during droughts during the World Wars. Consider that CV’s population today of around 500,000. The fantastically terrible colonial masters, the Portuguese, let this mass starvation happen. These famines are sometimes referred to as, “the times we ate dogs.” The international community saved Cape Verde from similar disaster several times after independence.
Every colonial power was dastardly, but Portugal ranks up there with the worst. At least the French and British left infrastructure and decent schools. Portugal left nothing but the misery it cultivated during its rule. There’s much underlying animosity for the Portuguese, who come to work and play. They’re described often as “atrevida,” or “cheeky, bold, insolent.” You see it in the way some visitors behave, how they treat the place and people, looking down on it. I’ve been told Americans are highly attuned to these things: we’re extremely politically correct. I have many Portuguese friends and haven’t experienced mistreatment, though a Cape Verdean acquaintance said of course, because America is better off than Portugal, but it’s different for CV and her people. They look up to America and down on CV, Angola, Guinea-Bissau, and Moçambique.
I’d like to visit Portugal. It’s also often called “atrasado,” or “late.” I admit taking pleasure in an international development book from the 70s describing it as part of the Third World. It’s a country with a proud, but ancient history. Younger Portuguese, born after colonialism, who seem well-educated, modern, and fun, must come to terms with this. The days of Portuguese dominance in exploration, naval power, and colonialism are long gone. The youth understand this, but perhaps don’t know how to move forward. Many seem sheepish or apologetic when taking about the past and present, and unconfident or worried about the future.
It never fails to surprise me of CV’s smallness. The last time I went to Praia, some other PCVs and I went to a discoteca, where we hung out with one of CV’s newest and biggest rap stars. He was a student of one of them at UniCV. It’s no wonder recently when there was a Celine Dion video on someone asked if I knew her and the people in the video. I identify my state, Michigan, as where “that white rapper, Eminem,” is from. “Do you know him? Akon? Chris Brown?” Otherwise Kriolu pronunciation leads people to believe I’m Mexican. This breeds more confusion when I tell how cold it is, how much snow we have. “I thought Mexico was hot?”
Anyway that’s about it. Thanks for reading. Stay dry!
My house like all others is a concrete box, whose benefits are price and ease/speed of construction. They’re cold in winter (it gets below 0º C, or 32 º F for you Americans and Brits ), leak, don’t hold paint well, take long to dry, and use imported cement and sand stolen from CV’s beaches and volcanoes. Doors and shutters (glass windows are a distinct luxury) are normally wooden, swelling in the rainy season making them difficult to open and close. In the dry season they shrink, making it easy for dust, vermin, bugs, and disreputable people to enter. With all that swelling and shrinking they don’t last long either.
Despite the negatives, the rainy season is essential. Whenever I get sick of the rains, I remind myself of the 100,000+ Cape Verdeans who starved to death during droughts during the World Wars. Consider that CV’s population today of around 500,000. The fantastically terrible colonial masters, the Portuguese, let this mass starvation happen. These famines are sometimes referred to as, “the times we ate dogs.” The international community saved Cape Verde from similar disaster several times after independence.
Every colonial power was dastardly, but Portugal ranks up there with the worst. At least the French and British left infrastructure and decent schools. Portugal left nothing but the misery it cultivated during its rule. There’s much underlying animosity for the Portuguese, who come to work and play. They’re described often as “atrevida,” or “cheeky, bold, insolent.” You see it in the way some visitors behave, how they treat the place and people, looking down on it. I’ve been told Americans are highly attuned to these things: we’re extremely politically correct. I have many Portuguese friends and haven’t experienced mistreatment, though a Cape Verdean acquaintance said of course, because America is better off than Portugal, but it’s different for CV and her people. They look up to America and down on CV, Angola, Guinea-Bissau, and Moçambique.
I’d like to visit Portugal. It’s also often called “atrasado,” or “late.” I admit taking pleasure in an international development book from the 70s describing it as part of the Third World. It’s a country with a proud, but ancient history. Younger Portuguese, born after colonialism, who seem well-educated, modern, and fun, must come to terms with this. The days of Portuguese dominance in exploration, naval power, and colonialism are long gone. The youth understand this, but perhaps don’t know how to move forward. Many seem sheepish or apologetic when taking about the past and present, and unconfident or worried about the future.
It never fails to surprise me of CV’s smallness. The last time I went to Praia, some other PCVs and I went to a discoteca, where we hung out with one of CV’s newest and biggest rap stars. He was a student of one of them at UniCV. It’s no wonder recently when there was a Celine Dion video on someone asked if I knew her and the people in the video. I identify my state, Michigan, as where “that white rapper, Eminem,” is from. “Do you know him? Akon? Chris Brown?” Otherwise Kriolu pronunciation leads people to believe I’m Mexican. This breeds more confusion when I tell how cold it is, how much snow we have. “I thought Mexico was hot?”
Anyway that’s about it. Thanks for reading. Stay dry!
Chã sta sabi
Things are going well in Chã. I enjoyed helping with Pre-Service Training in Assomada, Santiago, but it was nice to get back to site. Our new group of trainees (soon to be PCVs) is incredibly well-educated, motivated, and excited to get started. I too learned from sitting in on sessions, and gained inspiration from them. I have high hopes for them, especially since the new PCVs in Small Enterprise Development have excellent placements, with strong organizations, in positions to use their expertise to help CV.
Every time I leave Santiago I appreciate it more, sometimes feeling pangs of regret for not staying. It’s so big compared to Fogo, with more diversity, a more African cultural vibe, hikes, beaches, a great group of PCVs, so many resources and advantages. Fogo’s got the volcano, but more or less that’s it.
Santiago is nice because you can live in an entirely rural and isolated village, but in an hour or two get to Praia, the “big” city. Living in such a small country as CV can make a city of 150,000 like Praia seem like a bustling metropolis, with every possible resource. Indeed it bustles, but doesn’t stretch far. That makes it nice, though. It’s manageable. When I was in Ghana it took an hour or two to get across smoky, dusty, crowded, 2 million people Accra. I loved every minute of it, though. When in Praia I can walk anywhere I need to go (during the day).
I’m working on several projects. I’m putting my business degree to work helping determine the cost to make grappa/bagaceira, a liquor from fermented and distilled grape skins. Later I may tackle liqueurs (pomegranate, peach, fig) and wines. Getting one relatively complete costing model will make the other products easier. It’s a strange PC experience, working at a winery. Nothing about this experience has been what I expected. But the winery has made an incredible impact on the community, with just about everyone benefitting from increased grape prices, winery jobs, and tourism.
The second project is improving the school, which I wrote about last time. Since I live in the community and my boss in São Filipe, I’m getting estimates, finding people to volunteer, raising awareness, and writing the proposal. He’ll use his contacts and communications to get financing. If all goes well we can get it done before school begins. We’ll focus on making the bathrooms function, shoring up the rainwater catchment tank, paint, and windows/doors, in that order.
Otherwise there are little things. I hope to get materials to give a training on waitressing/hospitality for a local restaurant. I need to get an English class going, hopefully with materials which require no curriculum development by me. When the park builds its jam factory I’ll surely have work, provided it happens in the next year.
Anyway, I’m starting to bore myself, so it must be 10x worse for you. Thanks for reading.
Every time I leave Santiago I appreciate it more, sometimes feeling pangs of regret for not staying. It’s so big compared to Fogo, with more diversity, a more African cultural vibe, hikes, beaches, a great group of PCVs, so many resources and advantages. Fogo’s got the volcano, but more or less that’s it.
Santiago is nice because you can live in an entirely rural and isolated village, but in an hour or two get to Praia, the “big” city. Living in such a small country as CV can make a city of 150,000 like Praia seem like a bustling metropolis, with every possible resource. Indeed it bustles, but doesn’t stretch far. That makes it nice, though. It’s manageable. When I was in Ghana it took an hour or two to get across smoky, dusty, crowded, 2 million people Accra. I loved every minute of it, though. When in Praia I can walk anywhere I need to go (during the day).
I’m working on several projects. I’m putting my business degree to work helping determine the cost to make grappa/bagaceira, a liquor from fermented and distilled grape skins. Later I may tackle liqueurs (pomegranate, peach, fig) and wines. Getting one relatively complete costing model will make the other products easier. It’s a strange PC experience, working at a winery. Nothing about this experience has been what I expected. But the winery has made an incredible impact on the community, with just about everyone benefitting from increased grape prices, winery jobs, and tourism.
The second project is improving the school, which I wrote about last time. Since I live in the community and my boss in São Filipe, I’m getting estimates, finding people to volunteer, raising awareness, and writing the proposal. He’ll use his contacts and communications to get financing. If all goes well we can get it done before school begins. We’ll focus on making the bathrooms function, shoring up the rainwater catchment tank, paint, and windows/doors, in that order.
Otherwise there are little things. I hope to get materials to give a training on waitressing/hospitality for a local restaurant. I need to get an English class going, hopefully with materials which require no curriculum development by me. When the park builds its jam factory I’ll surely have work, provided it happens in the next year.
Anyway, I’m starting to bore myself, so it must be 10x worse for you. Thanks for reading.
19 August 2009
Back to the Volcano
This is my first blog from Chã das Caldeiras (from São Filipe technically…no internet in Chã). I moved a few weeks ago and am very happy. Much more so than in São Filipe, which was, well, terrible. Our second year PCVs are heading off to whatever awaits them, so it’s sad to see them go. On the other hand, I’m excited to meet the new trainees who most likely are currently struggling with Kriolu, illness, and adjusting to Cape Verdean life and culture, especially for those who’ve not traveled to the developing world before. Cancun isn’t the developing work, either…
As I’ve worked on this blog at various times, I’m continuing from the São Filipe airport, where, our national carrier has generously afforded me three extra hours to use my computer, read, be hungry, nap, before leaving for Praia! I’m going to help train the new trainees in things like Kriolu; Português; learning to love Zouk, Funana, Akon, and Chris Brown; how not to get sick anymore; small business skills; PACA; environmental education; and more.
I’m keeping relatively busy, helping at the winery especially. A friend is an enologist who’s teaching me all there is to know about winemaking. It’s interesting, and the winery is a huge benefit to the community. Who knows, maybe after I’ll try to work at Leelanau cellar for a harvest? South Africa’s got wineries too, Mom! Namibia as well. I’m also going to help with accounting, marketing, and determining production costs.
Other than the winery, I’ve spoken with the primary school director on doing a project to improve the school. New paint, functioning bathrooms, windows. Hopefully he’s getting estimates while I’m in Praia. Vamos a ver, né? The water utility is interested in erecting dry, composting toilets, which make perfect sense in Chã because it’s a mile above sea level, doesn’t have readily available aquifers, and pumping water from sea level would be exorbitantly expensive. Water is almost always the most important issue in any decision here.
Cape Verdean kids are required to attend school through 6th grade, which is free. In Chã that’s how far the school goes. Afterwards, they have to go to Cova Figueira, São Filipe, etc. to continue. They need a place to live, school’s not free anymore, and many are pressured to stay at home and farm. Few go, and hardly any graduate high school. Still, a few trickle out and eventually go to university in Praia, Europe, China, or Brazil.
The other day I noticed the professors had posted grades (no confidentiality!) outside the school. I’d observed the 6th grade class once, so I have an idea of the brighter students, the clowns, the quiet ones. I ran into a boy who’s kind of a punk (what 6th grade boy isn’t?), but clearly intelligent, especially in math. I asked if he passed, would he continue 7th grade outside of Chã. “No, my dad doesn’t want to send me.” Yet he ran off, to see if he achieved the necessary 10.5/20. As he dashed away, getting smaller and smaller, I couldn’t help but wonder what’s the use? Whether he got 100% or 0% in the end didn’t matter. Unless he gets a visa, he’s here for good, or gets drafted at 18 and leaves for a year or so. Anyway, he passed.
També n sta djobi pikenas, klaramenti. Ten um ki ta trabadja ku parki sima mi ki n sta tenta di ranja. N atxa ki n ta konsigi go n ka sabi ainda. Podi ser ael é sima kel otu na Txan ki ta fla txeu mintira. Atxa ki no, go. N ten ki da’l fala ora ki n torna bem di praia. Kati kati, poku poku, é ka simé? La na Txan bu ten ki ten un manta bibo bu ntendi?
As I’ve worked on this blog at various times, I’m continuing from the São Filipe airport, where, our national carrier has generously afforded me three extra hours to use my computer, read, be hungry, nap, before leaving for Praia! I’m going to help train the new trainees in things like Kriolu; Português; learning to love Zouk, Funana, Akon, and Chris Brown; how not to get sick anymore; small business skills; PACA; environmental education; and more.
I’m keeping relatively busy, helping at the winery especially. A friend is an enologist who’s teaching me all there is to know about winemaking. It’s interesting, and the winery is a huge benefit to the community. Who knows, maybe after I’ll try to work at Leelanau cellar for a harvest? South Africa’s got wineries too, Mom! Namibia as well. I’m also going to help with accounting, marketing, and determining production costs.
Other than the winery, I’ve spoken with the primary school director on doing a project to improve the school. New paint, functioning bathrooms, windows. Hopefully he’s getting estimates while I’m in Praia. Vamos a ver, né? The water utility is interested in erecting dry, composting toilets, which make perfect sense in Chã because it’s a mile above sea level, doesn’t have readily available aquifers, and pumping water from sea level would be exorbitantly expensive. Water is almost always the most important issue in any decision here.
Cape Verdean kids are required to attend school through 6th grade, which is free. In Chã that’s how far the school goes. Afterwards, they have to go to Cova Figueira, São Filipe, etc. to continue. They need a place to live, school’s not free anymore, and many are pressured to stay at home and farm. Few go, and hardly any graduate high school. Still, a few trickle out and eventually go to university in Praia, Europe, China, or Brazil.
The other day I noticed the professors had posted grades (no confidentiality!) outside the school. I’d observed the 6th grade class once, so I have an idea of the brighter students, the clowns, the quiet ones. I ran into a boy who’s kind of a punk (what 6th grade boy isn’t?), but clearly intelligent, especially in math. I asked if he passed, would he continue 7th grade outside of Chã. “No, my dad doesn’t want to send me.” Yet he ran off, to see if he achieved the necessary 10.5/20. As he dashed away, getting smaller and smaller, I couldn’t help but wonder what’s the use? Whether he got 100% or 0% in the end didn’t matter. Unless he gets a visa, he’s here for good, or gets drafted at 18 and leaves for a year or so. Anyway, he passed.
També n sta djobi pikenas, klaramenti. Ten um ki ta trabadja ku parki sima mi ki n sta tenta di ranja. N atxa ki n ta konsigi go n ka sabi ainda. Podi ser ael é sima kel otu na Txan ki ta fla txeu mintira. Atxa ki no, go. N ten ki da’l fala ora ki n torna bem di praia. Kati kati, poku poku, é ka simé? La na Txan bu ten ki ten un manta bibo bu ntendi?
02 July 2009
A few bullet points
Lauren said for blogs she sometimes just bullets interesting things. Dave and some of the rest of us spoke about how everyday things here might blow people’s minds in the US. Walking home from the store yesterday I thought about both these things, so here goes. Update: So I didn’t get around to posting this, so I’ve added more stuff that’s strange, interesting, crazy, etc.
• Saw a herd of goats feasting on cardboard and other garbage
• Witnessed a near cow-car collision
• Got scared by the rest of the herd of cows who were crossing the road but hidden from view behind a building
• A man I know who loves Americans stopped me on the street, complaining of the heat though wearing slacks, a suede suit jacket, and a hat, in we’ll say basic English
• Walking down the street I saw a stray dog pawing through a pile of garbage. A young boy snuck up on it, intending to kick or hit it with something. The dog spooked, and ran into the road, in front of a taxi. “Dnnnk.” The dog howled and ran away on three paws, the other held in close to its body, broken or severely injured.
• When the director of a private high school, who lives above us, with his wife, mother-in-law, and three children, heard Jonny and I were moving, he called us upstairs. Not knowing what he wanted, we were rather nervous. But he said he was sad to hear that we’re moving, that he felt safe with us around his children, asked if there was anything he could do, we’re always welcome to stay with them.
• Had to stop my run to allow a goat herd to cross the road
I’m sure there are things I’ve forgotten, but this gives a glimpse into everyday life. Today I’m moving back to Chã das Caldeiras, where I’ll stay until around August 2010. I will continue to blog infrequently and will be difficult to contact. Thanks for reading.
• Saw a herd of goats feasting on cardboard and other garbage
• Witnessed a near cow-car collision
• Got scared by the rest of the herd of cows who were crossing the road but hidden from view behind a building
• A man I know who loves Americans stopped me on the street, complaining of the heat though wearing slacks, a suede suit jacket, and a hat, in we’ll say basic English
• Walking down the street I saw a stray dog pawing through a pile of garbage. A young boy snuck up on it, intending to kick or hit it with something. The dog spooked, and ran into the road, in front of a taxi. “Dnnnk.” The dog howled and ran away on three paws, the other held in close to its body, broken or severely injured.
• When the director of a private high school, who lives above us, with his wife, mother-in-law, and three children, heard Jonny and I were moving, he called us upstairs. Not knowing what he wanted, we were rather nervous. But he said he was sad to hear that we’re moving, that he felt safe with us around his children, asked if there was anything he could do, we’re always welcome to stay with them.
• Had to stop my run to allow a goat herd to cross the road
I’m sure there are things I’ve forgotten, but this gives a glimpse into everyday life. Today I’m moving back to Chã das Caldeiras, where I’ll stay until around August 2010. I will continue to blog infrequently and will be difficult to contact. Thanks for reading.
11 June 2009
Sacrifice
I think the last post raised a few eyebrows. I didn’t mean to generalize, just to say that the woman and the boy really irked me. The vast majority of Cape Verdeans, like any population, are great people. I’ve heard one difference between serving in CV versus other PC posts, is that here people welcome us into their lives and we’re not the outsiders volunteers elsewhere are.
It’s hard for people to see the sacrifice we make as Americans, because in the local context, it’s not a sacrifice at all. For me joining didn’t feel like a sacrifice, and for some it’s even a very intelligent, rational decision. Definitely not for everyone though…It’s very common for Cape Verdeans to leave for Europe or America in search of a better life, while wives, children, parents, and friends stay behind. This population liquidity is evidenced by the fact that there are more Cape Verdeans outside of the country than in it.
We’re supposed to live at the level of the local population, but in reality our stipend makes us solidly upper-middle class. People see us going out for meals, taking vacations to other islands or countries, doing things the average person cannot. During a training in Praia some other PCVs and I spoke to a Cape Verdean familiar with PC. We tried to explain how it’s hard to give up two years, away from home, making much less money than we could in the States, etc. He said he knew how comfortably we live in CV and joked he’d give up his job and join PC, preferably to serve in the US.
One thing that differentiates us, is that we choose to volunteer. It’s not like people here who are forced to leave school to farm, feel there’s no option but to emigrate, or would like to eat at a restaurant but need to buy flip-flops for their kid who’s going to school barefoot. If I wanted, I could quit and be in the US within a week. That’s not possible here.
A point I wanted to make in the previous post is that one negative experience can overshadow several positive ones. I think it’s human nature, not an excuse I’ve created.
Last weekend I was in Chã das Caldeiras talking to a Cape Verdean who’d lived in the States, sharing his views on CV. One funny thing he said was that CV doesn’t have social unrest or anything because people like partying too much. Haha I don’t know, but he said it, not me. He said to remember his name, and next time I’m in his zone, ask for him. He said, “Of course you’d be welcome at my house,” in the same manner you’d say, “Of course goat is delicious.”
A few weeks ago I made the hike to Mosteiros from Chã das Caldeiras. When I got close to Mosteiros I came upon a woman and several of her kids. She had an enormous bundle of firewood balanced on her head and a child under her arm. She mentioned her son studies English and likes to practice with tourists who pass. When we entered Mosteiros she invited me for boiled sweet potatoes and coffee, a popular local snack, to practice with her son. The sacrifice she makes for her son is incredible, bringing strangers into to her home and feeding them, so her son can get better at English and hopefully improve his life.
Her eyes brightly glimmered giving away her relative youth, otherwise masked by dusty work clothes, neglected hair, and leathery skin caused by unending labor just to survive. She lamented that when she was younger she wanted to go to school, but had to leave after fourth grade to work. She bravely climbs that trail daily without regard to herself, with the hope her kids will enjoy the better life she imagined, but couldn’t achieve due to conditions beyond her control.
So that is the average Cape Verdean, not the “Give me” woman or the disrespectful kid. I hope I’ve cleared up that distinction.
It’s hard for people to see the sacrifice we make as Americans, because in the local context, it’s not a sacrifice at all. For me joining didn’t feel like a sacrifice, and for some it’s even a very intelligent, rational decision. Definitely not for everyone though…It’s very common for Cape Verdeans to leave for Europe or America in search of a better life, while wives, children, parents, and friends stay behind. This population liquidity is evidenced by the fact that there are more Cape Verdeans outside of the country than in it.
We’re supposed to live at the level of the local population, but in reality our stipend makes us solidly upper-middle class. People see us going out for meals, taking vacations to other islands or countries, doing things the average person cannot. During a training in Praia some other PCVs and I spoke to a Cape Verdean familiar with PC. We tried to explain how it’s hard to give up two years, away from home, making much less money than we could in the States, etc. He said he knew how comfortably we live in CV and joked he’d give up his job and join PC, preferably to serve in the US.
One thing that differentiates us, is that we choose to volunteer. It’s not like people here who are forced to leave school to farm, feel there’s no option but to emigrate, or would like to eat at a restaurant but need to buy flip-flops for their kid who’s going to school barefoot. If I wanted, I could quit and be in the US within a week. That’s not possible here.
A point I wanted to make in the previous post is that one negative experience can overshadow several positive ones. I think it’s human nature, not an excuse I’ve created.
Last weekend I was in Chã das Caldeiras talking to a Cape Verdean who’d lived in the States, sharing his views on CV. One funny thing he said was that CV doesn’t have social unrest or anything because people like partying too much. Haha I don’t know, but he said it, not me. He said to remember his name, and next time I’m in his zone, ask for him. He said, “Of course you’d be welcome at my house,” in the same manner you’d say, “Of course goat is delicious.”
A few weeks ago I made the hike to Mosteiros from Chã das Caldeiras. When I got close to Mosteiros I came upon a woman and several of her kids. She had an enormous bundle of firewood balanced on her head and a child under her arm. She mentioned her son studies English and likes to practice with tourists who pass. When we entered Mosteiros she invited me for boiled sweet potatoes and coffee, a popular local snack, to practice with her son. The sacrifice she makes for her son is incredible, bringing strangers into to her home and feeding them, so her son can get better at English and hopefully improve his life.
Her eyes brightly glimmered giving away her relative youth, otherwise masked by dusty work clothes, neglected hair, and leathery skin caused by unending labor just to survive. She lamented that when she was younger she wanted to go to school, but had to leave after fourth grade to work. She bravely climbs that trail daily without regard to herself, with the hope her kids will enjoy the better life she imagined, but couldn’t achieve due to conditions beyond her control.
So that is the average Cape Verdean, not the “Give me” woman or the disrespectful kid. I hope I’ve cleared up that distinction.
04 June 2009
Give Me
Some things have the ability to infuriate me, naturally. A lot depends on the situation, not only the trigger but a hundred other things. My brothers left a few weeks ago; things could only deteriorate. I just returned from an excellent training on Santiago, an island I like more every time I visit, and where I had the opportunity to serve in the natural park but instead decided on Fogo. Each time I leave, I want less and less to board the plane to return to Fogo.
Unfortunately it seems human nature to focus on the bad, not the good. Marketing research shows people who’ve had a negative experience will tell more acquaintances about it than those who’ve enjoyed a positive experience.
As I’ve written, I don’t like living in São Filipe. It’s not what wanted when I joined Peace Corps, and that hasn’t changed since the forced move in January. Walking home Monday after an ATM run, thinking about my abhorrence of this situation, I encountered one of my least favorite things. Two women hanging out on their porch greeted me, so I stopped to say hello, expecting a pleasant, though cursory conversation.
Immediately the older of the two, 65 or 70, held out her hand and said “Da-n dinheiro” (Give me money). Huh? Seriously? The other woman laughed, the other unabashedly thrust out her hand repeating the demand. I don’t know if there’s an uglier motion in the world. Dumbfounded, stunned at the boldness, the lack of pride, the younger woman instructed me to tell the woman I didn’t have any.
The older one said all Americans have money. I should give her some. She wants to go to America because there’s so much easy money. Surely it’d be simple for a woman her age to learn English and rise to the ranks of CEO at an MNC. She’s been to France, twice, which apparently wasn’t good enough. She lives in a nice area of the city and though has probably seen difficult times, those days are gone. Also, apparently she knows better than me what America’s like.
We ended up conversing awhile, aided by a much more pleasant neighbor whose husband is a driver for the ministry. I said I was a volunteer but that didn’t impress her neighbors. When I left I was enraged. I’m not quick on my feet verbally, let alone in a different language. I wish I were. I would’ve had some choice words. If I could do it again I would’ve said:
I do have money. I just came from the ATM. But I’m not going to give you a single escudo (unit of Cape Verdean currency, about a cent), and I never will. Don’t ever ask me for money. I’m a volunteer. You think America is so great, but I decided to trade two years of the good life in America to come to Cape Verde. I left my parents, brothers, family, friends. The average salary for my classmates from business school was $60,000. I don’t make 10% of that. You are lucky. Cape Verde is a middle income country. It is poor but it has a lot going for it, including an open and democratic government, a high standard of living, and peace. I’ve been to the next best country in West Africa, Ghana, and every single day I saw people going hungry. That doesn’t happen here. I can’t imagine Nigeria or Sierra Leone. If giving two years of my life to your country isn’t enough, go to hell.
I wish I had said that. And if she ever asks again, I will. I don’t care if that’s not kosher. I’m not going to pretend that some grandma asking every white person who walks by for money is cute. It’s ugly and shameful.
Yesterday, I found myself walking past the same house, and instinctively began rehearsing the diatribe in my head. Walking the other way was a group of three primary school boys. “Da-n 100 escudos,” (Give me 100 escudos) one of them said. With a quiet but serious intensity I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: “Bai pa merda criança,” (literally, “Go to shit child.”). His buddies let loose an emphatic “Whoaaa,” meaning, “You just got served by a white dude in Kriolu!”
Some might say it was too rough, but I don’t feel an ounce of regret.
Unfortunately it seems human nature to focus on the bad, not the good. Marketing research shows people who’ve had a negative experience will tell more acquaintances about it than those who’ve enjoyed a positive experience.
As I’ve written, I don’t like living in São Filipe. It’s not what wanted when I joined Peace Corps, and that hasn’t changed since the forced move in January. Walking home Monday after an ATM run, thinking about my abhorrence of this situation, I encountered one of my least favorite things. Two women hanging out on their porch greeted me, so I stopped to say hello, expecting a pleasant, though cursory conversation.
Immediately the older of the two, 65 or 70, held out her hand and said “Da-n dinheiro” (Give me money). Huh? Seriously? The other woman laughed, the other unabashedly thrust out her hand repeating the demand. I don’t know if there’s an uglier motion in the world. Dumbfounded, stunned at the boldness, the lack of pride, the younger woman instructed me to tell the woman I didn’t have any.
The older one said all Americans have money. I should give her some. She wants to go to America because there’s so much easy money. Surely it’d be simple for a woman her age to learn English and rise to the ranks of CEO at an MNC. She’s been to France, twice, which apparently wasn’t good enough. She lives in a nice area of the city and though has probably seen difficult times, those days are gone. Also, apparently she knows better than me what America’s like.
We ended up conversing awhile, aided by a much more pleasant neighbor whose husband is a driver for the ministry. I said I was a volunteer but that didn’t impress her neighbors. When I left I was enraged. I’m not quick on my feet verbally, let alone in a different language. I wish I were. I would’ve had some choice words. If I could do it again I would’ve said:
I do have money. I just came from the ATM. But I’m not going to give you a single escudo (unit of Cape Verdean currency, about a cent), and I never will. Don’t ever ask me for money. I’m a volunteer. You think America is so great, but I decided to trade two years of the good life in America to come to Cape Verde. I left my parents, brothers, family, friends. The average salary for my classmates from business school was $60,000. I don’t make 10% of that. You are lucky. Cape Verde is a middle income country. It is poor but it has a lot going for it, including an open and democratic government, a high standard of living, and peace. I’ve been to the next best country in West Africa, Ghana, and every single day I saw people going hungry. That doesn’t happen here. I can’t imagine Nigeria or Sierra Leone. If giving two years of my life to your country isn’t enough, go to hell.
I wish I had said that. And if she ever asks again, I will. I don’t care if that’s not kosher. I’m not going to pretend that some grandma asking every white person who walks by for money is cute. It’s ugly and shameful.
Yesterday, I found myself walking past the same house, and instinctively began rehearsing the diatribe in my head. Walking the other way was a group of three primary school boys. “Da-n 100 escudos,” (Give me 100 escudos) one of them said. With a quiet but serious intensity I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: “Bai pa merda criança,” (literally, “Go to shit child.”). His buddies let loose an emphatic “Whoaaa,” meaning, “You just got served by a white dude in Kriolu!”
Some might say it was too rough, but I don’t feel an ounce of regret.
26 May 2009
Behind the times
My bros just left Cape Verde for America after their whirlwind vacation, which was incredible and which I appreciated more than they’ll ever know. Not seeing family for ten months is difficult. But anyway, silly American miniscule vacations… Our European friends shake their heads in pity, appreciating the +/-1 month they get each year.
I was on http://www.peacecorpswiki.org recently which got me thinking about things we miss or that leave us behind. Serving in Cape Verde, is not, as my brothers found, like disappearing into the deserts of Niger or the forests of one of the former Soviet “Stans,” but it’s different than the States.
A universal loss is our grasp of the English language. In CV volunteers interact more often than at other posts, and many Cape Verdeans speak English, but still words escape us. I’m extremely glad I took the GRE already. When I came, my English was very good and I spoke decent Spanish. Now I speak simple Kriolu, broken Portuguese, no Spanish, and ever deteriorating English.
When the bros arrived I put on a mix of popular discoteca music in São Filipe. Cape Verdean funana, zouk, and rap mingle with Banda Calipso from Brazil; reggae from Bob Marley and Lucky Dube; and what we believed to be the latest Akon and other hip-hop stars.
“Have you heard this song, “Forever,” by Chris Brown? It just hit Cape Verde.”
“Uh actually that’s about eight months old. Haven’t you heard about how he beat up Rihanna?”
It seems the “latest” Akon is about six months old, and probably played out in the US. We still enthusiastically dance to it in the discos, not least because for once we understand the words. The tables are turned on our Cape Verdean partners.
Another phenomenon is Twitter. All these headlines we’ve seen during our precious internet time about what Oprah wrote or that Senator Whoever Twittered during some speech. What does it mean? Why is it so popular? And after having it explained multiple times by an IT volunteer and my bros: Why does anyone waste their time with this crap?
I excitedly pointed out the large canister of cinnamon I found in a shop in Mosteiros, or the abundance of meats in Praia supermarkets, to Chris’ rolled eyes. Buying spices in bulk, as opposed to in overpriced packets containing several tablespoons at best, isn’t tantalizing? It’s bad enough experiencing culture shock going from Fogo to Santiago. What’ll it be like going to Meijer or Kroger in the US for the first time?
I remember the first supermarket I entered after a month in Ghana. It was in Onekama in northern Michigan, on the shores of Portage Lake and across the street from the once glorious but apparently now shuttered Tuttens bar. Mary, Shanka, Ammar, Fairgrieve, Hobey, and Jamie (Sorry if I’ve omitted someone) practically had to drag me from the “vast” (the Onekama IGA is not Super Wal-Mart) selection of meats, breads, canned goods. Of course, no one sold skewers of grasscutter, ie overgrown rodent, or guinea fowl, by the road, to every American’s detriment.
I’ve been in Cape Verde ten months, and it’s amazing how much we’ve missed. What’ll it be like in fall 2010 when I return? For me at least, it’s more humorous than devastating. It’s the time not spent with family and friends that hurts. But I know when I step into the terminal at Lansing’s Capital City Airport after this adventure, while I will still be unfashionable, behind the times on music and IT, and shocked by the selection at the airport café, my family will be there and we’ll pick up like we’d only been apart a matter of minutes, not years.
I was on http://www.peacecorpswiki.org recently which got me thinking about things we miss or that leave us behind. Serving in Cape Verde, is not, as my brothers found, like disappearing into the deserts of Niger or the forests of one of the former Soviet “Stans,” but it’s different than the States.
A universal loss is our grasp of the English language. In CV volunteers interact more often than at other posts, and many Cape Verdeans speak English, but still words escape us. I’m extremely glad I took the GRE already. When I came, my English was very good and I spoke decent Spanish. Now I speak simple Kriolu, broken Portuguese, no Spanish, and ever deteriorating English.
When the bros arrived I put on a mix of popular discoteca music in São Filipe. Cape Verdean funana, zouk, and rap mingle with Banda Calipso from Brazil; reggae from Bob Marley and Lucky Dube; and what we believed to be the latest Akon and other hip-hop stars.
“Have you heard this song, “Forever,” by Chris Brown? It just hit Cape Verde.”
“Uh actually that’s about eight months old. Haven’t you heard about how he beat up Rihanna?”
It seems the “latest” Akon is about six months old, and probably played out in the US. We still enthusiastically dance to it in the discos, not least because for once we understand the words. The tables are turned on our Cape Verdean partners.
Another phenomenon is Twitter. All these headlines we’ve seen during our precious internet time about what Oprah wrote or that Senator Whoever Twittered during some speech. What does it mean? Why is it so popular? And after having it explained multiple times by an IT volunteer and my bros: Why does anyone waste their time with this crap?
I excitedly pointed out the large canister of cinnamon I found in a shop in Mosteiros, or the abundance of meats in Praia supermarkets, to Chris’ rolled eyes. Buying spices in bulk, as opposed to in overpriced packets containing several tablespoons at best, isn’t tantalizing? It’s bad enough experiencing culture shock going from Fogo to Santiago. What’ll it be like going to Meijer or Kroger in the US for the first time?
I remember the first supermarket I entered after a month in Ghana. It was in Onekama in northern Michigan, on the shores of Portage Lake and across the street from the once glorious but apparently now shuttered Tuttens bar. Mary, Shanka, Ammar, Fairgrieve, Hobey, and Jamie (Sorry if I’ve omitted someone) practically had to drag me from the “vast” (the Onekama IGA is not Super Wal-Mart) selection of meats, breads, canned goods. Of course, no one sold skewers of grasscutter, ie overgrown rodent, or guinea fowl, by the road, to every American’s detriment.
I’ve been in Cape Verde ten months, and it’s amazing how much we’ve missed. What’ll it be like in fall 2010 when I return? For me at least, it’s more humorous than devastating. It’s the time not spent with family and friends that hurts. But I know when I step into the terminal at Lansing’s Capital City Airport after this adventure, while I will still be unfashionable, behind the times on music and IT, and shocked by the selection at the airport café, my family will be there and we’ll pick up like we’d only been apart a matter of minutes, not years.
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