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.
02 July 2009
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.
19 April 2009
Heyoooo
I’ve been extremely remiss. Occasionally I write snippets or paragraphs, so I’ll string a few of them together.
It was my buddy’s birthday recently, so naturally I baked a cake. I left it in the oven overnight due to a full refrigerator and to protect it from flies. In any case, when I pulled it out the next day to frost, I found it swarming with ants.
Okay, so in the US this is obvious: throw the cake away and bake a new one. Here, not so clear. You can’t waste a whole freaking cake. That’s absurd. I didn’t have more flour and there was no place open to buy more. I didn’t have time to bake another.
I thought back to times I’d eaten cookies with ants on them or consumed juice hosting an ant pool party. Insects are great protein sources too! I blew off as many of the ants as I could, and put the cake in the freezer for awhile to kill the rest of the little moochers. Then a nice layer of white frosting covered any evidence.
To seal the deal, we ate it outside by candlelight with no chance of spotting corpses. And I’m happy to say, no one got sick and everyone said it was good. Yes!
I was thinking about ways in which I’ve changed here in outlook or mentality. Definitely patience grows living in a developing country.
The importance of family is greater than the US. In the States, the bond within immediate family members is strong, but here it extends farther. “Family” encompasses more people, 2nd, 3rd cousins. The definitions are different. There are no half siblings. Men having children with multiple women is common, and all are considered full brothers and sisters. Family trees are…interesting.
We live on the bottom apartment of a two story. The other night the kids upstairs were particularly loud and annoying, and finally they got what was coming to them. Instead of being horrified as we might have been in the US, we smiled at one another knowingly, acknowledging that it was about time.
Okay here we go Beau: Living more intimately with animals makes me less against hunting. Coming from Michigan and knowing plenty of hunters, I never had a problem with it. It’s the guns that bother me (An AK47 or a semi-auto Glock for hunting? To protect yourself from the queen of England? If as an American you have the right to bear arms, why not bear a 1700s black powder rifle or pistol like our forefathers? Who needs an M-16?). But anyway, I never cared to hunt because I didn’t think I could kill an animal. After living here, seeing animals killed, killing a few, I might just give it a go in the States. If you’re going to eat meat, you might as well be willing to kill it yourself.
I just found out I’m returning during the summer to the village from which I moved. I’m incredibly excited to go back to the strange little place I learned to love, though it could explode at any time! Just kidding, eruptions are announced by tremors giving enough time to escape.
The other night I went to a discoteca with some PCVs. Two female colleagues and I left early as the club was empty and it was getting late. Sitting on my front step, we heard crying from the nearby park. Then a cartoonishly loud “smack,” so overdone and followed by a strange guttural noise we assumed a few kids were playing. Moments later a teenage girl ran out from the park, sat down against a wall, and sobbed, head in hands. One of the PCVs went to talk to her, to make sure she was all right. The perfect gentleman of a boyfriend stalked over, arguing with them. From the step we couldn’t hear everything, but we did catch, “When we get home I’m going to beat you. It’s my right.” After more negotiating, begging, imploring by the PCV, the guy grabbed the girl by the hand, pulled her to her feet. He dragging her, she resisting, but ultimately following, they went off into the night.
It was disgusting. I wish I had gone over and said something. As right as my fellow PCV was in her arguments against the girl leaving just to get beaten by the guy who’ll certainly not face repercussions, he wasn’t going to listen to her. Maybe he would’ve listened to another guy. Maybe he would’ve felt embarrassed for a fleeting moment. Maybe not. At least I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering “What if?”
I’ll try to follow up with a what-I-do-everyday blog before long. Thanks for your patience. By local standards, I’m right on time.
It was my buddy’s birthday recently, so naturally I baked a cake. I left it in the oven overnight due to a full refrigerator and to protect it from flies. In any case, when I pulled it out the next day to frost, I found it swarming with ants.
Okay, so in the US this is obvious: throw the cake away and bake a new one. Here, not so clear. You can’t waste a whole freaking cake. That’s absurd. I didn’t have more flour and there was no place open to buy more. I didn’t have time to bake another.
I thought back to times I’d eaten cookies with ants on them or consumed juice hosting an ant pool party. Insects are great protein sources too! I blew off as many of the ants as I could, and put the cake in the freezer for awhile to kill the rest of the little moochers. Then a nice layer of white frosting covered any evidence.
To seal the deal, we ate it outside by candlelight with no chance of spotting corpses. And I’m happy to say, no one got sick and everyone said it was good. Yes!
I was thinking about ways in which I’ve changed here in outlook or mentality. Definitely patience grows living in a developing country.
The importance of family is greater than the US. In the States, the bond within immediate family members is strong, but here it extends farther. “Family” encompasses more people, 2nd, 3rd cousins. The definitions are different. There are no half siblings. Men having children with multiple women is common, and all are considered full brothers and sisters. Family trees are…interesting.
We live on the bottom apartment of a two story. The other night the kids upstairs were particularly loud and annoying, and finally they got what was coming to them. Instead of being horrified as we might have been in the US, we smiled at one another knowingly, acknowledging that it was about time.
Okay here we go Beau: Living more intimately with animals makes me less against hunting. Coming from Michigan and knowing plenty of hunters, I never had a problem with it. It’s the guns that bother me (An AK47 or a semi-auto Glock for hunting? To protect yourself from the queen of England? If as an American you have the right to bear arms, why not bear a 1700s black powder rifle or pistol like our forefathers? Who needs an M-16?). But anyway, I never cared to hunt because I didn’t think I could kill an animal. After living here, seeing animals killed, killing a few, I might just give it a go in the States. If you’re going to eat meat, you might as well be willing to kill it yourself.
I just found out I’m returning during the summer to the village from which I moved. I’m incredibly excited to go back to the strange little place I learned to love, though it could explode at any time! Just kidding, eruptions are announced by tremors giving enough time to escape.
The other night I went to a discoteca with some PCVs. Two female colleagues and I left early as the club was empty and it was getting late. Sitting on my front step, we heard crying from the nearby park. Then a cartoonishly loud “smack,” so overdone and followed by a strange guttural noise we assumed a few kids were playing. Moments later a teenage girl ran out from the park, sat down against a wall, and sobbed, head in hands. One of the PCVs went to talk to her, to make sure she was all right. The perfect gentleman of a boyfriend stalked over, arguing with them. From the step we couldn’t hear everything, but we did catch, “When we get home I’m going to beat you. It’s my right.” After more negotiating, begging, imploring by the PCV, the guy grabbed the girl by the hand, pulled her to her feet. He dragging her, she resisting, but ultimately following, they went off into the night.
It was disgusting. I wish I had gone over and said something. As right as my fellow PCV was in her arguments against the girl leaving just to get beaten by the guy who’ll certainly not face repercussions, he wasn’t going to listen to her. Maybe he would’ve listened to another guy. Maybe he would’ve felt embarrassed for a fleeting moment. Maybe not. At least I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering “What if?”
I’ll try to follow up with a what-I-do-everyday blog before long. Thanks for your patience. By local standards, I’m right on time.
04 March 2009
Nha aniversario/Meu aniversário/My birthday
My birthday was March 3rd, the big 2-3, putting me one year closer to renting a car in the US, senior discounts, and social security (just kidding, my generation won’t get that!).
I thought I’d lie low, not tell anyone who didn’t know, spend time with some PCVs. All PCVs knew because our newsletter announces birthdays. Also, I’m friends with a few people here on Facebook, who astutely noticed the impending anniversary.
I woke, made breakfast, went to work, the normal routine. I got home and my parents called, singing “Happy Birthday” according to family tradition. We talked until my Cape Verdean buddies came to practice English. After the lesson my grandparents called crooning “Happy Birthday” as well. Then we ran, I went home and showered, and went to dinner with some PCVs.
We had the best Chinese food on Fogo: grilled pork ribs and chicken, with fried rice. It’s too bad the multitude of Chinese people on the island don’t open an authentic restaurant. Nonetheless it was good and I’ll go again.
We stalled at the restaurant, watching Brazilian reality TV (“Wife Swap,” in Rio). Jonny fielded several phone calls, disappearing from time-to-time. I received well-wishes from the two awesome young women who lived in the same training village as me. We became intimate friends packed into the beds of pickup trucks shuttling our fellow villagers, livestock, and sacks of produce back and forth to Assomada, airing our concerns, frustrations, highs, lows, with uninhibited honesty. It approached 9:30, when I thought a few friends might stop by, so I was antsy to get back. No one else seemed hurried.
Finally we got to the house, Jonny searched his pockets, and said, “Oh I forgot my key,” so I opened the door. I looked left and thought I saw something strange on the futon but it was dark so I wasn’t sure.
I hit the light. “SURPRESA!!!” (surprise). On the table a huge, beautiful cake, and all of our close friends jammed into the diminutive living room: the Portuguese volunteer nurses, our German pals working in tourism and wine-making, our Luxemburger friend overhauling the water utility, my running partners/English students/friends, our Cape Verdean buddy (Joãozinho) who teaches Tae-Bo and has been a good friend to Peace Corps on Fogo for years, and a few others. I was astonished. They broke into “Happy Birthday” in Portuguese, then English, as I stood awed, like a deer in the headlights.
I shuffled towards the kitchen, dazed, to get extra plates and silverware, when my phone rang once again. Far too many digits appeared on the caller ID for a Cape Verdean number (no area codes here), and to my utter delight some of my best friends from the US, Shanka, Jamie, and Ammar called. Still floored from the surprise, it was nonetheless awesome to speak to them. More icing on the cake.
Every year there’s that nagging possibility in the back of my head, “If I open this door is there a surprise waiting?” But never did I expect it here, so far from home. It turns out the scheming Portuguese nurses who’ve become my good friends organized it. This mammoth effort, as their term ends and they return to Portugal the 5th, aided by Joãozinho and Jonny. I’m not an emotional person but I am, extremely touched, grateful, and lucky to be surrounded by such incredible people, even if I lack the words to express those feelings.
So despite the unremarkable, anticlimactic nature of the 23rd birthday, I count this as one of, if not the, best birthdays ever. A million miles from home, on a mysterious volcanic island rising from the unforgiving Atlantic, I continue to live a charmed and undeserved life. Thank you everyone. It means more than you know.
I thought I’d lie low, not tell anyone who didn’t know, spend time with some PCVs. All PCVs knew because our newsletter announces birthdays. Also, I’m friends with a few people here on Facebook, who astutely noticed the impending anniversary.
I woke, made breakfast, went to work, the normal routine. I got home and my parents called, singing “Happy Birthday” according to family tradition. We talked until my Cape Verdean buddies came to practice English. After the lesson my grandparents called crooning “Happy Birthday” as well. Then we ran, I went home and showered, and went to dinner with some PCVs.
We had the best Chinese food on Fogo: grilled pork ribs and chicken, with fried rice. It’s too bad the multitude of Chinese people on the island don’t open an authentic restaurant. Nonetheless it was good and I’ll go again.
We stalled at the restaurant, watching Brazilian reality TV (“Wife Swap,” in Rio). Jonny fielded several phone calls, disappearing from time-to-time. I received well-wishes from the two awesome young women who lived in the same training village as me. We became intimate friends packed into the beds of pickup trucks shuttling our fellow villagers, livestock, and sacks of produce back and forth to Assomada, airing our concerns, frustrations, highs, lows, with uninhibited honesty. It approached 9:30, when I thought a few friends might stop by, so I was antsy to get back. No one else seemed hurried.
Finally we got to the house, Jonny searched his pockets, and said, “Oh I forgot my key,” so I opened the door. I looked left and thought I saw something strange on the futon but it was dark so I wasn’t sure.
I hit the light. “SURPRESA!!!” (surprise). On the table a huge, beautiful cake, and all of our close friends jammed into the diminutive living room: the Portuguese volunteer nurses, our German pals working in tourism and wine-making, our Luxemburger friend overhauling the water utility, my running partners/English students/friends, our Cape Verdean buddy (Joãozinho) who teaches Tae-Bo and has been a good friend to Peace Corps on Fogo for years, and a few others. I was astonished. They broke into “Happy Birthday” in Portuguese, then English, as I stood awed, like a deer in the headlights.
I shuffled towards the kitchen, dazed, to get extra plates and silverware, when my phone rang once again. Far too many digits appeared on the caller ID for a Cape Verdean number (no area codes here), and to my utter delight some of my best friends from the US, Shanka, Jamie, and Ammar called. Still floored from the surprise, it was nonetheless awesome to speak to them. More icing on the cake.
Every year there’s that nagging possibility in the back of my head, “If I open this door is there a surprise waiting?” But never did I expect it here, so far from home. It turns out the scheming Portuguese nurses who’ve become my good friends organized it. This mammoth effort, as their term ends and they return to Portugal the 5th, aided by Joãozinho and Jonny. I’m not an emotional person but I am, extremely touched, grateful, and lucky to be surrounded by such incredible people, even if I lack the words to express those feelings.
So despite the unremarkable, anticlimactic nature of the 23rd birthday, I count this as one of, if not the, best birthdays ever. A million miles from home, on a mysterious volcanic island rising from the unforgiving Atlantic, I continue to live a charmed and undeserved life. Thank you everyone. It means more than you know.
20 February 2009
Differences, but not the song by Ginuwine…
It’s good to talk how people are alike and we’re a common humanity. I believe it too, though I only know five countries (plus Amsterdam’s airport. I’m told this doesn’t count. It was nice and I think I’ll like Europe immensely). It’s probably more interesting to you intrepid readers, who bravely slog through my awkward and infrequent posts, to hear about differences. I’ll say, in my day-to-day life, what’s different from the US and put approximate prices, to show how expensive it is. Things are often as pricey as the US, yet per capita GDP in CV is less than $1,500/year, and much less for average farmers. Fogo and Santo Antão are the poorest islands.
I wake at 6:45, faintly hearing roosters. Trucks rumble by filled with pilfered sand from the beaches or volcano. I get water from the filter, bleach it, and drink. I put CV coffee ($2.50/250g) in a pot and mix in 1.5 mugs of water. I light the gas stove with a Bic, singeing my hand. The oven is scarier. It’s a mini explosion. On another burner I fry an egg ($0.25). A common misconception is the need to refrigerate eggs. False. I’ve never refrigerated here, and I’ve only been to the hospital twice. Maybe I have parasites or amoebas but raw cookie dough is worth it. Fresh cow’s milk is not. No thank you. But it’s true, some doctor somewhere said eggs are fine at room temp. While coffee and egg cook, I peel a Fogo orange ($0.25), pale yellow, bruised, dirty, sour-ish, full of seeds. They don’t taste bad, and I like to support Fogo. Coffee boils a few minutes, and then I turn it off and let the grounds settle. I slowly pour into a mug, trying to keep the sludge in the pot.
After breakfast I walk to the office, passing women with big bowls balanced beautifully (alliteration!) on their heads, full of produce, fish, or clothes. Men idle near Hotel Xaguate with spear guns and other fishing implements. Kids going to morning session (to maximize existing infrastructure and teachers, school is ½ day) walk by, some in pressed school shirts, knockoff Diesel jeans, and Nike Air Force 1s, others in grubby t-shirts and holey flip-flops, or no footwear at all. Goats graze the ribeiras (valleys) or wander the streets, eating delicious delicious trash.
At the mint green office trimmed in black and white painted stones, I greet Cape Verdean, Portuguese, Brazilian, Guinean (Bissau), Cuban, and German colleagues in Kriolu and Portuguese. If power’s out, people cluster on the veranda smoking and chatting. Farmers fresh from the fields mingle with snappily dressed office workers. Extensionists zoom in and out of the parking lot on 1970s and 80s Honda dirt bikes, past 90s pickups and sparkling 2000s Toyota Prados (Land Cruisers).
In the office I sit with my boss and our colleague, competing for the Ethernet cable. Gmail offline is my savior. I bring toilet paper and hand sanitizer, in the likely situation the bathroom lacks both. To flush, turn on the water to fill the tank as it’s not automatic. I once had to scour the maid closet, finding a bucket of mop water to flush because the tank wouldn’t fill. In this water-poor country, if it’s yellow, let it mellow, if it’s brown etc. etc. I do lunch at 12ish, going home for leftovers and returning at 1ish. I drink “juice,” a catchall term encompassing real juice, Coke, Fanta, and what I have, Foster Clark’s, a glorified Kool Aid. At 3:30 I leave, passing people desiring a ride.
Hitchhiking is normal. If you own a car you help those less fortunate. There are also paid taxis and shared vans/pickups, which run more-or-less fixed routes but stop where you want within reason. There are a few buses, and 40 of us once waited 30 minutes while a rider got a haircut. Most people let you jump in their pickup bed for a lift. If you want to go somewhere, start walking and you’ll get a ride.
For shopping, it’s the commercial district or Super Rodrigo, the cheapest food store. It’s been dubbed, by PCVs, the Wal-Mart of CV. It’s a supermarket, home/building supply, and bulk food store. Supermarkets are stocked like decent 7-11s or gas stations. Sometimes prices are marked. The Shell gas station is open everyday, while everything else closes Sundays. For fresh produce or fish it’s the Mercado Municipal, with women vending what’s in season, from apples to beans to goat cheese. Tuna, serra (sawfish?), grouper, and others are available. Sushi-grade tuna costs $2.50/lb. Unlike other W. African countries, there’s little haggling. For household goods visit Chinese stores (lojas chinés), owned/run by Chinese people. They vend hilariously low-quality goods cheaply. There’s another open-air market, with knockoff and almost new clothes and electronics.
I read, nap, or listen to BBC until 5:30 when run with friends. We go to the port and back, maybe 4 miles? If a ship just arrived we go see, or go to the beach, climb the rocks, or check out the fishermen motoring their little skiffs in from the choppy seas between Fogo and Brava, one of the smallest islands, hulking ominously in the distance. You can also see the Dry Islands (Ilhas Secas), which are uninhabited but intriguing.
Back home, I drink milk with camoca (like ground burnt popcorn kernels that didn’t pop with sugar), relax, and start dinner. Usually I have rice and beans, like a good Cape Verdean. After, it’s reading, meeting friends at a bar, or if Friday the discoteca. Every so often I shower. We have running water, but we do it the submarine way, i.e. get wet, turn off the water, soap up, then rinse. It’s on less than a minute. I hit the sack before 11 and repeat in the morning.
On weekends (not every weekend) I wash clothes, bending over a basin of water with a washboard and a bar of laundry soap, the kind in the US you’re not supposed to touch. At first it makes the skin fall off your hands, but they learn. You can also wash your face with it. After wringing, I hang clothes on the roof, hoping the neighbor’s dog Kiko won’t tear them down and stink ‘em up like she did with my 2nd favorite pair of pants. The sun’s strong, drying clothes in 3-4 hours. I have trouble grasping how a “real” washing machine works now, considering I use about 3 gallons of water and no electricity. Clothes take a beating, but they’re cleaner than with a machine. It’s a good workout, but probably explains why many older women are hunchbacked.
I guess the last difference is total strangers are nice and invite you into their lives, especially in rural areas. I don’t think it’s because I’m white, either. It makes a big difference speaking Kriolu, not Portuguese, the language of colonization, oppression, and starvation (100,000+ Cape Verdeans died of hunger in the 1900s). More so in Chã, I felt like an accepted member of the families.
All right txau. Obrigadu.
I wake at 6:45, faintly hearing roosters. Trucks rumble by filled with pilfered sand from the beaches or volcano. I get water from the filter, bleach it, and drink. I put CV coffee ($2.50/250g) in a pot and mix in 1.5 mugs of water. I light the gas stove with a Bic, singeing my hand. The oven is scarier. It’s a mini explosion. On another burner I fry an egg ($0.25). A common misconception is the need to refrigerate eggs. False. I’ve never refrigerated here, and I’ve only been to the hospital twice. Maybe I have parasites or amoebas but raw cookie dough is worth it. Fresh cow’s milk is not. No thank you. But it’s true, some doctor somewhere said eggs are fine at room temp. While coffee and egg cook, I peel a Fogo orange ($0.25), pale yellow, bruised, dirty, sour-ish, full of seeds. They don’t taste bad, and I like to support Fogo. Coffee boils a few minutes, and then I turn it off and let the grounds settle. I slowly pour into a mug, trying to keep the sludge in the pot.
After breakfast I walk to the office, passing women with big bowls balanced beautifully (alliteration!) on their heads, full of produce, fish, or clothes. Men idle near Hotel Xaguate with spear guns and other fishing implements. Kids going to morning session (to maximize existing infrastructure and teachers, school is ½ day) walk by, some in pressed school shirts, knockoff Diesel jeans, and Nike Air Force 1s, others in grubby t-shirts and holey flip-flops, or no footwear at all. Goats graze the ribeiras (valleys) or wander the streets, eating delicious delicious trash.
At the mint green office trimmed in black and white painted stones, I greet Cape Verdean, Portuguese, Brazilian, Guinean (Bissau), Cuban, and German colleagues in Kriolu and Portuguese. If power’s out, people cluster on the veranda smoking and chatting. Farmers fresh from the fields mingle with snappily dressed office workers. Extensionists zoom in and out of the parking lot on 1970s and 80s Honda dirt bikes, past 90s pickups and sparkling 2000s Toyota Prados (Land Cruisers).
In the office I sit with my boss and our colleague, competing for the Ethernet cable. Gmail offline is my savior. I bring toilet paper and hand sanitizer, in the likely situation the bathroom lacks both. To flush, turn on the water to fill the tank as it’s not automatic. I once had to scour the maid closet, finding a bucket of mop water to flush because the tank wouldn’t fill. In this water-poor country, if it’s yellow, let it mellow, if it’s brown etc. etc. I do lunch at 12ish, going home for leftovers and returning at 1ish. I drink “juice,” a catchall term encompassing real juice, Coke, Fanta, and what I have, Foster Clark’s, a glorified Kool Aid. At 3:30 I leave, passing people desiring a ride.
Hitchhiking is normal. If you own a car you help those less fortunate. There are also paid taxis and shared vans/pickups, which run more-or-less fixed routes but stop where you want within reason. There are a few buses, and 40 of us once waited 30 minutes while a rider got a haircut. Most people let you jump in their pickup bed for a lift. If you want to go somewhere, start walking and you’ll get a ride.
For shopping, it’s the commercial district or Super Rodrigo, the cheapest food store. It’s been dubbed, by PCVs, the Wal-Mart of CV. It’s a supermarket, home/building supply, and bulk food store. Supermarkets are stocked like decent 7-11s or gas stations. Sometimes prices are marked. The Shell gas station is open everyday, while everything else closes Sundays. For fresh produce or fish it’s the Mercado Municipal, with women vending what’s in season, from apples to beans to goat cheese. Tuna, serra (sawfish?), grouper, and others are available. Sushi-grade tuna costs $2.50/lb. Unlike other W. African countries, there’s little haggling. For household goods visit Chinese stores (lojas chinés), owned/run by Chinese people. They vend hilariously low-quality goods cheaply. There’s another open-air market, with knockoff and almost new clothes and electronics.
I read, nap, or listen to BBC until 5:30 when run with friends. We go to the port and back, maybe 4 miles? If a ship just arrived we go see, or go to the beach, climb the rocks, or check out the fishermen motoring their little skiffs in from the choppy seas between Fogo and Brava, one of the smallest islands, hulking ominously in the distance. You can also see the Dry Islands (Ilhas Secas), which are uninhabited but intriguing.
Back home, I drink milk with camoca (like ground burnt popcorn kernels that didn’t pop with sugar), relax, and start dinner. Usually I have rice and beans, like a good Cape Verdean. After, it’s reading, meeting friends at a bar, or if Friday the discoteca. Every so often I shower. We have running water, but we do it the submarine way, i.e. get wet, turn off the water, soap up, then rinse. It’s on less than a minute. I hit the sack before 11 and repeat in the morning.
On weekends (not every weekend) I wash clothes, bending over a basin of water with a washboard and a bar of laundry soap, the kind in the US you’re not supposed to touch. At first it makes the skin fall off your hands, but they learn. You can also wash your face with it. After wringing, I hang clothes on the roof, hoping the neighbor’s dog Kiko won’t tear them down and stink ‘em up like she did with my 2nd favorite pair of pants. The sun’s strong, drying clothes in 3-4 hours. I have trouble grasping how a “real” washing machine works now, considering I use about 3 gallons of water and no electricity. Clothes take a beating, but they’re cleaner than with a machine. It’s a good workout, but probably explains why many older women are hunchbacked.
I guess the last difference is total strangers are nice and invite you into their lives, especially in rural areas. I don’t think it’s because I’m white, either. It makes a big difference speaking Kriolu, not Portuguese, the language of colonization, oppression, and starvation (100,000+ Cape Verdeans died of hunger in the 1900s). More so in Chã, I felt like an accepted member of the families.
All right txau. Obrigadu.
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