Transition to Service

A lot has changed in the past week: my status, my job, and in more ways than one, my location.

For one thing, I got sworn in last Saturday. I am no longer a trainee — I am officially a Peace Corps Volunteer. Huzzah! There was a nice ceremony with speeches by the U.S. Ambassador and local political notables. All of us spruced up real nicely — dresses, long-sleeved shirts, ties, a few suits — and then proceeded to drench ourselves in sweat. I was one of four people chosen by my peers to talk to the press (in Creole), and despite my gross state, I had every intention of fulfilling my obligation… but evidently I left the auditorium too quickly and missed the microphones. Oops! It's just as well, though, because I was able to save half a [moist, delicious, perfect] chocolate-chip cookie for one of the other [more responsible] interviewees.

After that we went to Praia, and I spent the next two nights in a hotel waiting for a Monday flight to São Nicolau. And what a glorious two nights they were! Air conditioning! CNN! My first hot shower since I left Boston! Best of all, we had nothing to do. Nothing to learn, no forms to fill out, no people to meet. I woke up late, went to a cafe, and ate a huge piece of chocolate cake as I watched chairs flying across the patio outside (a very windy rainstorm was just rolling in). During the day, we swam in the pool at the U.S. Embassy. At night, we had schwarma, which is something like a cross between gyros and California burritos. All in all, a delightfully lazy Sunday with me and my swear-in buddies.

The next morning, Brett S, Nelson, Brett B, and I (the São Nicolau crew) woke up at 5:30 to catch an 8am flight on TACV, Cape Verde's national airline. TACV is interesting. Here are some reasons why:

• they cancel/delay flights if there aren't enough passengers. This happens in the U.S. too, but evidently it's pretty routine here (several of our peers got pushed back a day).
• this isn't exactly a TACV issue, but airports on various islands can be closed for weeks at a time. The one on Fogo was closed for a while and reopened just a day before swear-in, depriving several new volunteers of what would have otherwise been a very memorable 7-hour boat ride (and possibly a much longer wait for the boat to actually leave).
• the checked baggage weight limit is 20 kilograms, or about 45 pounds. Not that different from the U.S., except that it is only a weight limit (not a bag-count limit), and you pay for each extra kilo. In other words, if you had five bags and they were all 3kg, you'd be fine (which is kind of nice). But most of us were closer to 55kg — in other words, 35kg over limit, which costs 7,000 escudos (about a hundred bucks). We gave them a bit of sob story about being poor volunteers, and we got our overage knocked down to 20kg per capita (4,600 escudos). Still double our PC allowance for excess baggage charges, but not bad! Unfortunately…
• We couldn't pay the charges (or, in turn, get our boarding passes) before our 8:00 departure time, because you can only make payments in the ticketing office, and that doesn't open until 8:00. Thankfully, our flight ran late, so we had time. In fact, I think TACV is the kind of airline that just keeps waiting until all the passengers show up on the runway. So, possibly, it ran late because we had to pay for our baggage. Now distill that down to a principle: a passenger can guarantee that an 8:00 flight will be delayed merely by showing up with overweight baggage. Crazy, huh? Unless, of course, TACV just decides not to charge you, which is also possible. We think that one of our friends on a 6:30 flight got away free for that very reason, and we subsequently talked about scheduling future flights in a way designed specifically to avoid baggage fees…

Anyway, that's TACV. The lovable rascal.

At least they got us to São Nicolau, and I couldn't be happier. This island is gorgeous. We saw absolutely no sign of human habitation before the plane crossed over the airport fence. There wasn't much to be fenced in, either: a landing strip on a high, grassy plain nestled between two mountain ranges, with a terminal building smaller than most train stations. A long, lonely road led over rolling green hills into the quaint alpine-esque villa of Ribeira Brava. We continued along the island's one main road, hugging the coast as we made our way around the cloud-steeped peak of Monte Gordo. On the far side, we climbed it, cruising through the fertile valley of Fajã and then wending back and forth on ivy-lined switchback roads to get to the top.

On the other side, it was a different world again: drier, browner, rockier. By the time I got to Tarrafal — the beach-town that is currently my home — I could hardly believe that we were on the same island. But that's how it is: the moisture rises up from the ocean on the north side, and it is trapped there by the peak of Monte Gordo. Here in the southwest, it's like a desert. The houses in town are painted in bright colors, and the cobblestone streets are scantily shaded by palms or the occasional acacia tree. It gets hot, and in the heat of the day, the only thing moving is the breeze (or me, if I'm rushing around trying to get our water turned on). Which, to be fair, has a certain charm. I like this lazy, slow feeling. I like that people are relaxed here. Everyone is happy to talk to us (me and my roommate, Brett Beach), even if only to ask whether we have girlfriends yet. And the youth center where I'm supposed to work is nice and new; the people on the staff seem full of energy and understanding. From what they told me, it sounds like I'd be free to pursue my own projects and do what I feel is important, when I feel like doing it.

But I'm not working there, and I won't be living here.

Much as it breaks my heart to leave Brett (who has so far been an amazingly good roommate), there is an even better opportunity for me elsewhere on São Nicolau. Just a few days before swear-in, Aguido (the man who's kind of, sort of, a little bit like my boss… he runs the PC/Cape Verde small business program, of which I am a part) told me that a community group in Fajã had been asking for a PC volunteer for a while and had only just recently found suitable housing. Obviously, he said, it was too late to move straight there, but he asked me to check it out and see whether I liked it. Fajã, as I mentioned, is a lush green fertile valley… through the use of drip irrigation and other improved agricultural techniques, they're trying to turn it into the breadbasket of São Nicolau. To do that, however, they need to convince farmers that drip irrigation is worth the startup costs, and then they need to help those farmers secure financing. Jobless youth in the community also need guidance: they need AIDS/HIV education, English lessons… they need a place to congregate, and something fruitful to do there. And who better to lead the way to all that good stuff than a savvy Westerner like me? (so they think, anyway)

I met the Association (the community group that requested me) and walked around Fajã on Wednesday. And as it so happens, I love it. Beyond being beautiful, it's also a smaller community than Tarrafal, so it should be easier to meet everyone and feel like I've been integrated… to make close friends. That, in turn, should make it easier to accomplish stuff, and what I'm accomplishing will be more interesting anyway (In Tarrafal, I would have been primarily teaching computer classes, which gives my students access to skilled jobs, which eventually increases wealth and therefore increases the ability of local people to buy the [imported] things they need. In Fajã, I'll be helping to increase agricultural output, which increases wealth now — within a matter of months, anyway —— and decreases dependency on imported food.)

The best part, however, might be the house. Here in Tarrafal, our house is on a street corner. It's connected to another house, across from another house, etc. We have access to a huge, very nice rooftop space, but from where we actually spend most of our time (i.e., inside the house) there are no good views: it's either the street or the cement "kintal" that is our back yard.

The house in Fajã… well, it needs some work. It's what travel brochures might call "classic" or "rustic" Cape Verdian living. No insulation (you look up and see roof tiles), no sinks, no shower. Surprisingly, it does have electric lights, a fridge, and a gas stove… but the house is otherwise little more than shelter. That's what makes it so great: it's simple. And the setting is unbelievable: it's by itself on acres and acres of farmland, all of which is currently occupied by corn but which will be mine to use as I see fit. In the middle of a sloping valley with the peak of Monte Gordo rising up behind me and a gleaming swath of ocean visible below, I will be able to grow my own food and [possibly] raise my own chickens. Henry David Thoreau would be proud. Oh, and the air there! It feels so good just to breathe it!

So in two weeks-ish, I'm going there. I have to wait because the Association is going to spruce it up (new/added doors, windows, screens, sinks, showerhead, toilet, flooring). After that — after all this interminable waiting — the next two years of my life finally really truly begin.