I found a USB cable in a chinese loja for about $5. Therefore, pictures:
http://picasaweb.google.com/carchase/CapeVerdePreServiceTraining
Enjoy! (I'll add more there as I take them and have time to post them)
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
The Wedding
whooooooooooooooossh...
I've never studied abroad, but my friends tell me that you know you're really getting the hang of the language when you start dreaming in it. Considering that I've only been immersed for a week, I feel pretty good about Cape Verdian Creole (Kriolu), but I'm still dreaming about home. Last night my friends Sam, Adrian, and I went to the Concord Mills mall and were reprimanded by loudspeaker for shoplifting costumes (thus spoke the Ma Bell voice: "Please note that while you are encouraged to try on costumes, you may only do so to check the fit. Playing in costumes, especially outside the store, is strictly prohibited."). Alas, we were having too much fun to care what Ma thought of us. I remember being dressed as Captain Kirk and Sam made a rather sporting NASCAR driver. Random, I know. But isn't it marvelous to see the creativity of an idle mind? Two nights ago, in another dream, my mother handed me a giant, translucent Fedex envelope that contained a Fedex box that contained a returned return from Amazon.com. Evidently, they refused the return because I failed to send back one of the advertisements that they had included in the original shipment -- those jerks! Later that night, I was watched by the secret service as I left the wedding of some bigshot political celebrity. I managed to escape their hawk-like (eagle-like?) surveillance long enough to rendezvous (underground-revolutionary-style) with some other wedding guests who, like me, were trying to get to the after-party somewhere near exit 5 in Charlotte but didn't quite know the way.
BANG!
It had not occurred to me that I should cover my ears. I know the distinctive whoosh of a rocket racing skyward, but I'm not used to hearing it more than a week outside of July 4th, and with a few [quite memorable] exceptions they have always been launched far away from where I stood. This one was different. The whoosh was a detailed, swirly sound; you could almost hear the rocket curving before it exploded against the hillside a few hundred feet away and echoed back and forth across the narrow valley. It left no visible trace.
"What was that?" we asked.
Samira, our language-culture facilitator (or LCF -- the Peace Corps loves acronyms), explained to Jackie, Tiffani, and I that in small towns like Ribeira da Barca they use fireworks to signal that there will be a wedding. As we had just attended the civil ceremony in the town's telecentro, we already knew about it. In fact, because people here love to talk, it's probable that everyone in town already knew about it... but I still think it's nice to set off fireworks (which they do throughout the day for 3 days), both as a celebration and as a reminder that the party is for everyone.
And let me tell you: Cape Verdians know how to party.
The wedding was on Saturday, but food preparation (and the first few rounds of eating) began in earnest on Friday. Jackie, Tiffani, and I went to the bride Dilma's house that night to witness the bustle. We came too late and kind of missed it -- they were really cleaning plates more than cooking dishes when we got there -- but Samira gave us some background info that helped us fill in the gaps to understand what we saw. There were huge 20-gallon kettles propped up on the ashes of wood and coal and lined up along the edge of the narrow cobblestone street, across from the bride's house. Each kettle had been filled with a different stew: perhaps masa ku carne (balls of cornmeal with beef or lamb), katxupa (KA-CHU-PAH, a very traditional soup that features garbanzo beans), or feijão (a bean/vegetable medley). As soon as we were noticed (which, between us being white and Samira being popular, was pretty much immediately), they insisted that we eat. None of us wanted to (we’d had dinner), but evidently it’s extremely rude to visit without eating… even if everyone involved knows in advance that the visitors aren’t hungry (more on that later).
So we ate, we drank, and in our limited Kriolu, we spoke. Of we three, I think I’ve been producing the most complete sentences, but Jackie is definitely the best at getting the gist of what people say. While we were eating, one of the ladies who had offered me food started asking me about my age, girlfriends, and children. When it was established that I am almost 23 and have neither children nor “pequenas” neither here nor in the United States, she evidently asked if I wanted to have children with her. Her subtlety escaped me at the time – Jackie had to explain it to me afterward – but I nevertheless managed to blurt out some excuse about needing more than a week to get that sort of thing squared away.
Like many third-world countries, it is common here to have children (and hopefully get married) at a young age. There is also widespread idolization of the United States (“Merka e fixi,” they say – “America is good”), due in part to glamorous depictions of American life in the media and due in part to stories from relatives (the [slight] majority of Cape Verdians actually live near Boston). For both of these reasons, it’s hard for a young white male like myself not to get a lot of offers… I’m both a) different, and b) potentially a ticket to a “better life.” So if I ever get back into a dating mentality while I’m here, well… I just need to be especially diligent about finding a girl who wants me because c) we have something in common. Not to mention the fact that while AIDS is somewhat less common in Cape Verde than in the rest of Africa, the incidence of STDs in general for Peace Corps volunteers is higher here than in any other country in the world. I’m convinced that it’s a Law of Numbers thing (people here party a lot; there are at least 20 important national holidays). Ask me again in a year.
Speaking of a “better life,” though, reminds me of how swanky it is here. I’ve spoken with a lot of current volunteers since arriving here, and phrases like “Posh Core” and “Club Verde” get tossed around. Don’t get me wrong – this is still Africa. There’s still Malaria (though only on Santiago, the largest island), I still have pigs and chickens and goats and cows running around the yard, the population is growing unsustainably while resources dwindle (which is especially troubling for an island-nation), the unemployment rate is about 24%, pretty theft is on the rise, and though I haven’t experienced it firsthand, the government probably doesn’t work.
But transportation does – you can get all the way across the island for about 350 escudos (about $5.50) in zippy little Toyota Hiace vans (called “Yace” around here) that have distinct seats for 14 people (but actually tend to hold closer to 20). In principle they’re probably really unsafe, but in practice most of the drivers have been on these roads for years and can make their way around everything from curbs to goats with scientific precision.
The water’s not potable as-is for foreigners, but it’s also not that bad. Because of the whole arid-desert-island thing, Cape Verde pays more attention to water than the average developing nation. And because there isn’t must heavy industry, there are fewer pollutants to worry about anyway. I brushed and rinsed my teeth with tap water for the first three days (I had forgotten the whole water-safety thing) without event. And the food, though somewhat monotonous after a while (lunch and dinner always involve rice), at least tastes good. Another big win is the western-style toilets; though toilet paper goes in a trash can that eventually stinks and “flushing” usually means pouring a bucket of water down the bowl, you can at least sit down while you do your business.
And it’s laid back here. I noticed that the moment I got on the plane in Boston. It was operated by TACV (the government-owned airline), and everyone on board acted like they were old friends. In fact, I think many of them were. The flight attendants chatted and laughed freely – on their cell phones, with each other, and with the passengers. They obviously waited for the last passenger (he ran in 20 minutes late) before closing the cabin door. Hearty food (by airline standards) came fast. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I was in the exit row and had unlimited leg room, I failed to sleep (I was too cold).
But excitement and wonder kept me going through my fatigue. Just outside Boston, the full moon illuminated the scattered clouds and the ocean below in such a way that they appeared to be touching – that the clouds were merely a silky sheath sliding over the tops of the waves to make them glimmer a little more. The next morning, like a sailor, I cried “land ho!” as the soaring peaks of Santiago first emerged through my window.
Twenty minutes later we were on the ground and in baggage claim, grabbing any bag with the light blue yarn that identified its owner as a Peace Corps trainee. When most of us had our bags, we began to filter out of the airport one by one… and one by one we were greeted with thunderous cheering. At first you could only hear it happening past closed doors, and I wondered if it might be a local airport tradition like the awarding of leis in Hawaii or the live music in the customs area in Bermuda. But as it turns out, the cheer squad was actually a contingent of current Peace Corps volunteers (PCVs) in Cape Verde. Many of them hung out with us over the next several days, which was precious because it allayed some of our worries about what we were experiencing (mainly, they confirmed that it’s entirely normal to start out as a clueless, jittery puddle of mush).
Except I wasn’t worried. I still felt great when I crawled into a Hiace van for the first time. I still felt great when -- like an army of pale hamsters -- we unloaded the truck that was carrying our bags and lugged them up three flights of stairs to the dormitory where we would be sleeping during orientation. Even throughout the rest of the day, through session after session of boring policy mumbo-jumbo (and a tiny bit of batuku dancing for good measure), my sleep-deprived head was all ears.
But then it stopped.
The sleeping and eating and meeting and learning and moving that has consumed us entirely since our arrival in Boston was now resolved. We were free for the evening. So we went back to our rooms and…
…well, some people probably just talked more. Unfortunately, I didn’t know my roommate that well (and I think he was gone at the time anyway), so I ended up just looking out the window and watching the quiet street below.
And I was reminded of a few things. To explain them, let me rewind a bit.
If you talked to me just before I left for Boston, I might have told you that I was really excited about meeting the other volunteers. In retrospect, I wasn’t excited enough (Sam, in you’re listening, I should have been stoked instead of jazzed). This is an awesome bunch of people. The first full night in Boston, I took a shuttle to Target with Jackie (who I already mentioned) and another new friend called Judy. We joked our way through our last glorious bout of American consumerism, playing with/debating all the suitcases and suggesting silly presents for each other’s host families. Judy convinced me to buy scissors with a plastic-moulded woodpecker for a handle; she bought the matching vegetable peeler and a nice collection of frivolous stickers. Jackie got a new suitcase with wheels (but tried to offer it to Judy, as it was the last one – how kind). Silly stuff, I know, but to me it seemed oddly beautiful that I was doing something so routine with people I’d only known for eight hours.
Later that night, we met up with Rochelle (unless I say otherwise, assume that all names are fellow PC trainees) to go to Chicago Uno for dinner. We had chosen that particular restaurant in part because Judy had a hankering for clam chowder and we knew that they served it. I piggybacked on her hankering (it sounded like a good idea once I’d heard it), but alas, after Judy and I placed our orders the waitress returned to tell us that they only had enough left for one bowl. In retrospect, I should have been a gentleman and let her have it (sorry, Judy), but instead I instinctively threw up my fist for a game of rock, paper, scissors (or as she calls it, “stone, paper, scissors”). She took the hint and tugged up her fist in response. Rock, paper, scissors, SHOOT!
Rock and stone. While the waitress waits, rock, paper, scissors, shoot again. I’m still rock. She’s paper. I switched to French onion soup. The four of us shared our recent romantic histories. Good times were had by all.
From what some of you have told me about your experiences with Girl Scouts and other similar organizations, this kind of intense bonding is fairly common when you’re relentlessly surrounded by a particular set of recent strangers. Perhaps I could have had just as much fun with entirely different people. But that doesn’t change the fact that bonding happened, and specifically, it happened with these people.
So on that first night in Cape Verde, suddenly alone, I was reminded that I had not come here to hang out with my newfound American bosom buddies. In fact, I knew perfectly well that after our three-day orientation in Praia, we would split up. Except for Jackie and Tiffani (who live in my town and join me for lessons with Samira), I only see other trainees once or twice a week. And after we complete pre-service training (PST – they use that one a lot), there’s a good chance that some of them I will never see again.
So as it turns out, I really am in Africa and I really am going to have to make friends with Africans if I want to avoid feeling totally alone. Obvious, yes, I know. But especially for someone like me who sees so much of his own identity in the way he writes English, it’s daunting to think about building any sort of deep relationship across a language barrier.
But that night I slept, and as always, I felt a little better in the morning. I’ve been working each day since then to come to terms with the fact that Cape Verde is now home. Of course, “home” is a loaded word – I’ll probably write a full post about that later – but for now, my success with the language is helping. Language instruction really began in earnest on the Sunday after our arrival, when we drove to the mountain city of Assomada to meet our host families from surrounding villages. I was more or less mute at first, but they are nice to me and they give me much more privacy than the Peace Corps had led me to expect. They are also extremely helpful and patient with the language; in particular, my host father Apolinu (Pui) is very diligent about repeating himself and gesturing until I understand what he means. It’s exhausting, but in concert with the formal instruction I get during the day, also powerful: by the fourth night I was actually relaxed while speaking. I no longer worried that missing grammar would stop me dead in my speaking tracks; instead I was confident that through gesturing or speech or otherwise, I could get my point across. Which, of course, makes me feel much better about the prospect of someday making real friends out of the people here.
It also doesn’t hurt that Cape Verdians are so darn friendly. Especially in rural towns like Ribeira da Barca (where I am living during PST), many people greet you and try to learn your name when they first see you. Often they’ll repeat, “txiga, txiga!”, urging you to come into their house and sit down. If you do, then – like I said before – you’re expected to eat. We trainees find this a little strange, since in America we think of it as more or less a biological fact that an unexpected guest may or may not happen to be hungry. But perhaps there’s a cultural explanation: although nobody really starves in Cape Verde these days, it definitely used to be a problem (during colonial times, Portugal was a little stingy about sending food reserves when crops failed here), so perhaps it used to be the case that you could depend on your visitors being hungry.
Not so anymore. Saturday began with the church wedding, which finishes what the civil ceremony started and which was held in Assomada. Samira, Jackie, Tiffani and I were supposed to leave around 8am on a Yace, but I didn’t get there until 8:20 and Samira was a no-show until well past 9. No matter – from what we heard, the bride was still getting ready, which gave everyone else free license to take their time. Everything starts late here. (Which is fine, actually, because it’s a byproduct of everything happening slowly, which is a huge part of my motivation for being here anyway.)
When we arrived at the church in Assomada, we were excited to see others trainees sitting on the steps (at least while we’re still adjusting to the language and culture, it is always a relief to find someone else who speaks English). Sadly, they didn’t join us inside for the ceremony.
Or ceremonies, I should say. Seated in the front row were five brides in white dresses and five grooms in suits who – after five vows in a mix of Portuguese and Kriolu – became five married couples. I’ve actually wanted to go to a wedding for quite a while, but I can’t say that this is how I imagined it. In America, weddings are such enormous events; some couples could buy a small house for what they spend on their nuptial. And it’s rare that you’re just going to a wedding. You go to the wedding of Jordan and Kathryn, the celebration not of love itself but of the couple’s success with finding love in each other. Jordan and Kathryn get to be superstars. Idols. And boy, do they work for it.
Here in Cape Verde, a wedding is a routine. Couples don’t hire planners or sift through books looking for cool ways to entertain their guests – nobody tries to be unique or special. Couples are expected only to hang out and visit, which means that all the real work of cooking, cleaning, and organizing is handled by neighbors. It’s ultimately not that different from any other Cape Verdian party. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. On one [frugal] hand, it’s really nice to save money by sharing costs. It’s not that different from the way friends take turns buying dinner in America; you cook for other peoples’ weddings knowing that they would cook (or already have cooked) for yours. On the other hand, I can’t deny the egotistical core in my soul that says my wedding should be something transcendent.
(An aside: cost-sharing weddings also remind me of money clubs, which are fairly common in Africa. If you haven’t heard of them, the basic idea is that all members contribute an equal amount to a pot that is then given to one member on a rotating basis. So if the monthly contribution is $100 and there are 11 members, the first member gets $1000 (i.e., (11-1) × $100) in August, the second member gets $1000 in September, etc. I know it sounds strange, but it allows members to make large purchases that might otherwise never be possible. You may suggest that each member should just stash $100 on their own each month (that’s my instinct too), but that’s easier said than done, especially when you have a macho husband who likes to spend (money clubs are frequently all-female). I bet we’d have money clubs in the US, too, if we didn’t have credit cards instead).
Anyway, mom, do you remember reading what the Peace Corps packing list said about dress clothes? That I might need them for weddings? I think your words were, “I hope you won’t be going to too many weddings!” Well, technically, I went to 5 of them before the end of the second week. Incidentally, my dress shirt was back home in my suitcase (where it belongs).
Thank goodness, too, because I don’t think I would have survived the rest of that day in a dress shirt. We hopped on a Yace to Txada Len, a small town that was hosting a festa to commemorate the anniversary of their local church’s founding (most towns in Cape Verde do this, and for most of them, it’s the biggest festa of the year; everybody saves up to go no-holds-barred with everything from food to clothes to decorations). Samira was still with us, so we basically party-hopped between the houses of people she knows and the houses of people we know (Txada Len, like Ribeira da Barca, is home to several PC trainees). But again, the catch is that you have to eat whenever you walk indoors. On account of the heat, we weren’t hungry to begin with. After 3 or 4 consecutive dinners and a few more stops where I got away with just eating cake… well, let’s just say that “n sta fartu” (I’m full) took on a whole new dimension.
Are you really still reading this? If so, I could probably sucker you into reading another 10 pages, even if I double the amount of rambling. But then I’d lose precious time for sleep and homework (the PC makes trainees put together a portfolio…ugh), so instead I’m going to summarize everything else in a series of brief vignettes:
FOGO: last night I dreamt that I was in the kitchen of my mom’s house back in North Carolina, and in the middle of the countertop between the sink and the stove (in the corner, for those of you who know it well), there were four sizzling pieces of toast. And by sizzling, I mean they looked like they were in the broiler. As it turns out, there was a fire in the crawl space under the house. But boy, did that toast look yummy.
TAKSI: I was able to send out a decent mass-email update last week because Samira showed up to the Internet café very late (thus giving me extra time). Unfortunately, all this lateness also made us miss the last Yace, so we had to take a taxi home (and 25km in a taxi ain’t cheap). Aside from Samira feeling terrible about putting us in that position, it was pitch dark and terribly foggy, and none of the cars here have seat belts. About halfway through the trip, the driver got off his cell phone long enough to stop at a mini-mart to pick up something. That something turned out to be a beer, which he swigged a little before taking off again. Once we had safely arrived in Ribeira da Barca, the driver surreptitiously underestimated Samira’s age (she’s 30) by a margin of 12 years.
MATADU: basically everyone in town seems to be my host father’s cousin. One of those cousins is named Alex. Alex invited me into his living room last week. Over the din of the telenovela, he complimented me on my Kriolu and showed me pictures of friends from China and continental Africa who had come to Cape Verde in the past and learned Kriolu quite successfully. My gaze wandering, I noticed some Russian VHS tapes next to the TV. Do you know Russian?, I asked. He doesn’t, but he explained that he has a friend in town that had to flee Russia because he killed too many people and the Russian police were after him. Evidently, he has spent the last 10 years in Cape Verde without event. Good to know.
N KRE KELI: during the past week, we began technical training, which introduced us to societal problems that exist in Cape Verde and gave us some basic tools for community development. I went home excited. In fact, I went home wanting to join the Peace Corps. Which was the first solid sign that I’m going to last here. Huzzah!
DIXIE WORLD: about 30 minutes ago, I heard the General Lee’s distinctive horn blaring from a truck on the other side of the valley. God bless America.
SICKO: most people have been more or less healthy so far, myself included. A lot of them have experienced fleeting diarrhea or nausea, which I have thankfully managed to avoid. But my head has been kind of messed up since I got here. My lips swelled up and felt raw after the first week. I kind of thought that I was getting impetigo, but the doctor told me to just use chapstick. A week later, it was worse (I’d also had a terrible sunburn on my face in that interim, which didn’t help). I wanted to talk to the doctor again when we had an all-hands in Assomada that Wednesday, but they skipped out early. I called the next day and never got a call back. I called the next day, talked to the other doctor, and didn’t get a call back. That Saturday, when I was supposed to go with all the other volunteers on a field trip to the beach town of Tarrafal, I got four calls from two different PC medical people. They asked me how I was, told me they were sending medicine (to Assomada, which is 40 minutes away), and advised me not to go on the field trip. My reaction: thanks, guys, for waiting until my chin and lymph nodes are swollen and until it’s time to hit the sand before you decide to help me. I planned to go anyway and pick up my medicine later, but with that fourth call, the doctor nixed my designs: he said that he would accompany the medicine to Assomada and I could meet him there to be examined. I half-believe that he was doing that just to keep me away from Tarrafal, but I appreciated his effort (it’s an hour ride from Praia), so I met him there. On the way, I passed a few crowds of fellow PC trainees who were waiting along the roadside to be picked up in the other direction (toward Tarrafal). We chatted. “Oh you’re going to the beach? That’s nice. Yeah, I wanted to, but I’m getting this skin infection checked out. Yep, catch you later!” Fortunately, when I met the doctor, the swelling turned out to be much less severe than he had expected, and he toned down his recommendation to stay home (he also gave me a gigantic tube of the goop, which is great, because I can save it… I get impetigo once or twice a year and it’s much better if you cut it off early). So, naturally, I took the next Yace to Tarrafal. It was impeccably beautiful, I found my friends, I had a wonderful day, and my head is almost back to normal.
ANGRA: this was on Sunday. Angra is a beach just up the coast that is only accessible by foot or by boat, and for no particular reason, they have a huge party there once a year. You pay about 65 cents to ride over along the coast in a glorified wooden dinghy (I kind of want to buy one – they build them right here on the other side of the valley). The largest dinghies only hold about 10 or 15 people, but by 3pm they’d managed to get nearly 1,000 people on this beach with live music, a stage, a barbecue, and a captain’s stockpile of the local favorite: a beer called Super Bock. People danced on the black sand, jumped from the rocks, and frolicked all day long. Oh, it was nice.
I've never studied abroad, but my friends tell me that you know you're really getting the hang of the language when you start dreaming in it. Considering that I've only been immersed for a week, I feel pretty good about Cape Verdian Creole (Kriolu), but I'm still dreaming about home. Last night my friends Sam, Adrian, and I went to the Concord Mills mall and were reprimanded by loudspeaker for shoplifting costumes (thus spoke the Ma Bell voice: "Please note that while you are encouraged to try on costumes, you may only do so to check the fit. Playing in costumes, especially outside the store, is strictly prohibited."). Alas, we were having too much fun to care what Ma thought of us. I remember being dressed as Captain Kirk and Sam made a rather sporting NASCAR driver. Random, I know. But isn't it marvelous to see the creativity of an idle mind? Two nights ago, in another dream, my mother handed me a giant, translucent Fedex envelope that contained a Fedex box that contained a returned return from Amazon.com. Evidently, they refused the return because I failed to send back one of the advertisements that they had included in the original shipment -- those jerks! Later that night, I was watched by the secret service as I left the wedding of some bigshot political celebrity. I managed to escape their hawk-like (eagle-like?) surveillance long enough to rendezvous (underground-revolutionary-style) with some other wedding guests who, like me, were trying to get to the after-party somewhere near exit 5 in Charlotte but didn't quite know the way.
BANG!
It had not occurred to me that I should cover my ears. I know the distinctive whoosh of a rocket racing skyward, but I'm not used to hearing it more than a week outside of July 4th, and with a few [quite memorable] exceptions they have always been launched far away from where I stood. This one was different. The whoosh was a detailed, swirly sound; you could almost hear the rocket curving before it exploded against the hillside a few hundred feet away and echoed back and forth across the narrow valley. It left no visible trace.
"What was that?" we asked.
Samira, our language-culture facilitator (or LCF -- the Peace Corps loves acronyms), explained to Jackie, Tiffani, and I that in small towns like Ribeira da Barca they use fireworks to signal that there will be a wedding. As we had just attended the civil ceremony in the town's telecentro, we already knew about it. In fact, because people here love to talk, it's probable that everyone in town already knew about it... but I still think it's nice to set off fireworks (which they do throughout the day for 3 days), both as a celebration and as a reminder that the party is for everyone.
And let me tell you: Cape Verdians know how to party.
The wedding was on Saturday, but food preparation (and the first few rounds of eating) began in earnest on Friday. Jackie, Tiffani, and I went to the bride Dilma's house that night to witness the bustle. We came too late and kind of missed it -- they were really cleaning plates more than cooking dishes when we got there -- but Samira gave us some background info that helped us fill in the gaps to understand what we saw. There were huge 20-gallon kettles propped up on the ashes of wood and coal and lined up along the edge of the narrow cobblestone street, across from the bride's house. Each kettle had been filled with a different stew: perhaps masa ku carne (balls of cornmeal with beef or lamb), katxupa (KA-CHU-PAH, a very traditional soup that features garbanzo beans), or feijão (a bean/vegetable medley). As soon as we were noticed (which, between us being white and Samira being popular, was pretty much immediately), they insisted that we eat. None of us wanted to (we’d had dinner), but evidently it’s extremely rude to visit without eating… even if everyone involved knows in advance that the visitors aren’t hungry (more on that later).
So we ate, we drank, and in our limited Kriolu, we spoke. Of we three, I think I’ve been producing the most complete sentences, but Jackie is definitely the best at getting the gist of what people say. While we were eating, one of the ladies who had offered me food started asking me about my age, girlfriends, and children. When it was established that I am almost 23 and have neither children nor “pequenas” neither here nor in the United States, she evidently asked if I wanted to have children with her. Her subtlety escaped me at the time – Jackie had to explain it to me afterward – but I nevertheless managed to blurt out some excuse about needing more than a week to get that sort of thing squared away.
Like many third-world countries, it is common here to have children (and hopefully get married) at a young age. There is also widespread idolization of the United States (“Merka e fixi,” they say – “America is good”), due in part to glamorous depictions of American life in the media and due in part to stories from relatives (the [slight] majority of Cape Verdians actually live near Boston). For both of these reasons, it’s hard for a young white male like myself not to get a lot of offers… I’m both a) different, and b) potentially a ticket to a “better life.” So if I ever get back into a dating mentality while I’m here, well… I just need to be especially diligent about finding a girl who wants me because c) we have something in common. Not to mention the fact that while AIDS is somewhat less common in Cape Verde than in the rest of Africa, the incidence of STDs in general for Peace Corps volunteers is higher here than in any other country in the world. I’m convinced that it’s a Law of Numbers thing (people here party a lot; there are at least 20 important national holidays). Ask me again in a year.
Speaking of a “better life,” though, reminds me of how swanky it is here. I’ve spoken with a lot of current volunteers since arriving here, and phrases like “Posh Core” and “Club Verde” get tossed around. Don’t get me wrong – this is still Africa. There’s still Malaria (though only on Santiago, the largest island), I still have pigs and chickens and goats and cows running around the yard, the population is growing unsustainably while resources dwindle (which is especially troubling for an island-nation), the unemployment rate is about 24%, pretty theft is on the rise, and though I haven’t experienced it firsthand, the government probably doesn’t work.
But transportation does – you can get all the way across the island for about 350 escudos (about $5.50) in zippy little Toyota Hiace vans (called “Yace” around here) that have distinct seats for 14 people (but actually tend to hold closer to 20). In principle they’re probably really unsafe, but in practice most of the drivers have been on these roads for years and can make their way around everything from curbs to goats with scientific precision.
The water’s not potable as-is for foreigners, but it’s also not that bad. Because of the whole arid-desert-island thing, Cape Verde pays more attention to water than the average developing nation. And because there isn’t must heavy industry, there are fewer pollutants to worry about anyway. I brushed and rinsed my teeth with tap water for the first three days (I had forgotten the whole water-safety thing) without event. And the food, though somewhat monotonous after a while (lunch and dinner always involve rice), at least tastes good. Another big win is the western-style toilets; though toilet paper goes in a trash can that eventually stinks and “flushing” usually means pouring a bucket of water down the bowl, you can at least sit down while you do your business.
And it’s laid back here. I noticed that the moment I got on the plane in Boston. It was operated by TACV (the government-owned airline), and everyone on board acted like they were old friends. In fact, I think many of them were. The flight attendants chatted and laughed freely – on their cell phones, with each other, and with the passengers. They obviously waited for the last passenger (he ran in 20 minutes late) before closing the cabin door. Hearty food (by airline standards) came fast. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I was in the exit row and had unlimited leg room, I failed to sleep (I was too cold).
But excitement and wonder kept me going through my fatigue. Just outside Boston, the full moon illuminated the scattered clouds and the ocean below in such a way that they appeared to be touching – that the clouds were merely a silky sheath sliding over the tops of the waves to make them glimmer a little more. The next morning, like a sailor, I cried “land ho!” as the soaring peaks of Santiago first emerged through my window.
Twenty minutes later we were on the ground and in baggage claim, grabbing any bag with the light blue yarn that identified its owner as a Peace Corps trainee. When most of us had our bags, we began to filter out of the airport one by one… and one by one we were greeted with thunderous cheering. At first you could only hear it happening past closed doors, and I wondered if it might be a local airport tradition like the awarding of leis in Hawaii or the live music in the customs area in Bermuda. But as it turns out, the cheer squad was actually a contingent of current Peace Corps volunteers (PCVs) in Cape Verde. Many of them hung out with us over the next several days, which was precious because it allayed some of our worries about what we were experiencing (mainly, they confirmed that it’s entirely normal to start out as a clueless, jittery puddle of mush).
Except I wasn’t worried. I still felt great when I crawled into a Hiace van for the first time. I still felt great when -- like an army of pale hamsters -- we unloaded the truck that was carrying our bags and lugged them up three flights of stairs to the dormitory where we would be sleeping during orientation. Even throughout the rest of the day, through session after session of boring policy mumbo-jumbo (and a tiny bit of batuku dancing for good measure), my sleep-deprived head was all ears.
But then it stopped.
The sleeping and eating and meeting and learning and moving that has consumed us entirely since our arrival in Boston was now resolved. We were free for the evening. So we went back to our rooms and…
…well, some people probably just talked more. Unfortunately, I didn’t know my roommate that well (and I think he was gone at the time anyway), so I ended up just looking out the window and watching the quiet street below.
And I was reminded of a few things. To explain them, let me rewind a bit.
If you talked to me just before I left for Boston, I might have told you that I was really excited about meeting the other volunteers. In retrospect, I wasn’t excited enough (Sam, in you’re listening, I should have been stoked instead of jazzed). This is an awesome bunch of people. The first full night in Boston, I took a shuttle to Target with Jackie (who I already mentioned) and another new friend called Judy. We joked our way through our last glorious bout of American consumerism, playing with/debating all the suitcases and suggesting silly presents for each other’s host families. Judy convinced me to buy scissors with a plastic-moulded woodpecker for a handle; she bought the matching vegetable peeler and a nice collection of frivolous stickers. Jackie got a new suitcase with wheels (but tried to offer it to Judy, as it was the last one – how kind). Silly stuff, I know, but to me it seemed oddly beautiful that I was doing something so routine with people I’d only known for eight hours.
Later that night, we met up with Rochelle (unless I say otherwise, assume that all names are fellow PC trainees) to go to Chicago Uno for dinner. We had chosen that particular restaurant in part because Judy had a hankering for clam chowder and we knew that they served it. I piggybacked on her hankering (it sounded like a good idea once I’d heard it), but alas, after Judy and I placed our orders the waitress returned to tell us that they only had enough left for one bowl. In retrospect, I should have been a gentleman and let her have it (sorry, Judy), but instead I instinctively threw up my fist for a game of rock, paper, scissors (or as she calls it, “stone, paper, scissors”). She took the hint and tugged up her fist in response. Rock, paper, scissors, SHOOT!
Rock and stone. While the waitress waits, rock, paper, scissors, shoot again. I’m still rock. She’s paper. I switched to French onion soup. The four of us shared our recent romantic histories. Good times were had by all.
From what some of you have told me about your experiences with Girl Scouts and other similar organizations, this kind of intense bonding is fairly common when you’re relentlessly surrounded by a particular set of recent strangers. Perhaps I could have had just as much fun with entirely different people. But that doesn’t change the fact that bonding happened, and specifically, it happened with these people.
So on that first night in Cape Verde, suddenly alone, I was reminded that I had not come here to hang out with my newfound American bosom buddies. In fact, I knew perfectly well that after our three-day orientation in Praia, we would split up. Except for Jackie and Tiffani (who live in my town and join me for lessons with Samira), I only see other trainees once or twice a week. And after we complete pre-service training (PST – they use that one a lot), there’s a good chance that some of them I will never see again.
So as it turns out, I really am in Africa and I really am going to have to make friends with Africans if I want to avoid feeling totally alone. Obvious, yes, I know. But especially for someone like me who sees so much of his own identity in the way he writes English, it’s daunting to think about building any sort of deep relationship across a language barrier.
But that night I slept, and as always, I felt a little better in the morning. I’ve been working each day since then to come to terms with the fact that Cape Verde is now home. Of course, “home” is a loaded word – I’ll probably write a full post about that later – but for now, my success with the language is helping. Language instruction really began in earnest on the Sunday after our arrival, when we drove to the mountain city of Assomada to meet our host families from surrounding villages. I was more or less mute at first, but they are nice to me and they give me much more privacy than the Peace Corps had led me to expect. They are also extremely helpful and patient with the language; in particular, my host father Apolinu (Pui) is very diligent about repeating himself and gesturing until I understand what he means. It’s exhausting, but in concert with the formal instruction I get during the day, also powerful: by the fourth night I was actually relaxed while speaking. I no longer worried that missing grammar would stop me dead in my speaking tracks; instead I was confident that through gesturing or speech or otherwise, I could get my point across. Which, of course, makes me feel much better about the prospect of someday making real friends out of the people here.
It also doesn’t hurt that Cape Verdians are so darn friendly. Especially in rural towns like Ribeira da Barca (where I am living during PST), many people greet you and try to learn your name when they first see you. Often they’ll repeat, “txiga, txiga!”, urging you to come into their house and sit down. If you do, then – like I said before – you’re expected to eat. We trainees find this a little strange, since in America we think of it as more or less a biological fact that an unexpected guest may or may not happen to be hungry. But perhaps there’s a cultural explanation: although nobody really starves in Cape Verde these days, it definitely used to be a problem (during colonial times, Portugal was a little stingy about sending food reserves when crops failed here), so perhaps it used to be the case that you could depend on your visitors being hungry.
Not so anymore. Saturday began with the church wedding, which finishes what the civil ceremony started and which was held in Assomada. Samira, Jackie, Tiffani and I were supposed to leave around 8am on a Yace, but I didn’t get there until 8:20 and Samira was a no-show until well past 9. No matter – from what we heard, the bride was still getting ready, which gave everyone else free license to take their time. Everything starts late here. (Which is fine, actually, because it’s a byproduct of everything happening slowly, which is a huge part of my motivation for being here anyway.)
When we arrived at the church in Assomada, we were excited to see others trainees sitting on the steps (at least while we’re still adjusting to the language and culture, it is always a relief to find someone else who speaks English). Sadly, they didn’t join us inside for the ceremony.
Or ceremonies, I should say. Seated in the front row were five brides in white dresses and five grooms in suits who – after five vows in a mix of Portuguese and Kriolu – became five married couples. I’ve actually wanted to go to a wedding for quite a while, but I can’t say that this is how I imagined it. In America, weddings are such enormous events; some couples could buy a small house for what they spend on their nuptial. And it’s rare that you’re just going to a wedding. You go to the wedding of Jordan and Kathryn, the celebration not of love itself but of the couple’s success with finding love in each other. Jordan and Kathryn get to be superstars. Idols. And boy, do they work for it.
Here in Cape Verde, a wedding is a routine. Couples don’t hire planners or sift through books looking for cool ways to entertain their guests – nobody tries to be unique or special. Couples are expected only to hang out and visit, which means that all the real work of cooking, cleaning, and organizing is handled by neighbors. It’s ultimately not that different from any other Cape Verdian party. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. On one [frugal] hand, it’s really nice to save money by sharing costs. It’s not that different from the way friends take turns buying dinner in America; you cook for other peoples’ weddings knowing that they would cook (or already have cooked) for yours. On the other hand, I can’t deny the egotistical core in my soul that says my wedding should be something transcendent.
(An aside: cost-sharing weddings also remind me of money clubs, which are fairly common in Africa. If you haven’t heard of them, the basic idea is that all members contribute an equal amount to a pot that is then given to one member on a rotating basis. So if the monthly contribution is $100 and there are 11 members, the first member gets $1000 (i.e., (11-1) × $100) in August, the second member gets $1000 in September, etc. I know it sounds strange, but it allows members to make large purchases that might otherwise never be possible. You may suggest that each member should just stash $100 on their own each month (that’s my instinct too), but that’s easier said than done, especially when you have a macho husband who likes to spend (money clubs are frequently all-female). I bet we’d have money clubs in the US, too, if we didn’t have credit cards instead).
Anyway, mom, do you remember reading what the Peace Corps packing list said about dress clothes? That I might need them for weddings? I think your words were, “I hope you won’t be going to too many weddings!” Well, technically, I went to 5 of them before the end of the second week. Incidentally, my dress shirt was back home in my suitcase (where it belongs).
Thank goodness, too, because I don’t think I would have survived the rest of that day in a dress shirt. We hopped on a Yace to Txada Len, a small town that was hosting a festa to commemorate the anniversary of their local church’s founding (most towns in Cape Verde do this, and for most of them, it’s the biggest festa of the year; everybody saves up to go no-holds-barred with everything from food to clothes to decorations). Samira was still with us, so we basically party-hopped between the houses of people she knows and the houses of people we know (Txada Len, like Ribeira da Barca, is home to several PC trainees). But again, the catch is that you have to eat whenever you walk indoors. On account of the heat, we weren’t hungry to begin with. After 3 or 4 consecutive dinners and a few more stops where I got away with just eating cake… well, let’s just say that “n sta fartu” (I’m full) took on a whole new dimension.
Are you really still reading this? If so, I could probably sucker you into reading another 10 pages, even if I double the amount of rambling. But then I’d lose precious time for sleep and homework (the PC makes trainees put together a portfolio…ugh), so instead I’m going to summarize everything else in a series of brief vignettes:
FOGO: last night I dreamt that I was in the kitchen of my mom’s house back in North Carolina, and in the middle of the countertop between the sink and the stove (in the corner, for those of you who know it well), there were four sizzling pieces of toast. And by sizzling, I mean they looked like they were in the broiler. As it turns out, there was a fire in the crawl space under the house. But boy, did that toast look yummy.
TAKSI: I was able to send out a decent mass-email update last week because Samira showed up to the Internet café very late (thus giving me extra time). Unfortunately, all this lateness also made us miss the last Yace, so we had to take a taxi home (and 25km in a taxi ain’t cheap). Aside from Samira feeling terrible about putting us in that position, it was pitch dark and terribly foggy, and none of the cars here have seat belts. About halfway through the trip, the driver got off his cell phone long enough to stop at a mini-mart to pick up something. That something turned out to be a beer, which he swigged a little before taking off again. Once we had safely arrived in Ribeira da Barca, the driver surreptitiously underestimated Samira’s age (she’s 30) by a margin of 12 years.
MATADU: basically everyone in town seems to be my host father’s cousin. One of those cousins is named Alex. Alex invited me into his living room last week. Over the din of the telenovela, he complimented me on my Kriolu and showed me pictures of friends from China and continental Africa who had come to Cape Verde in the past and learned Kriolu quite successfully. My gaze wandering, I noticed some Russian VHS tapes next to the TV. Do you know Russian?, I asked. He doesn’t, but he explained that he has a friend in town that had to flee Russia because he killed too many people and the Russian police were after him. Evidently, he has spent the last 10 years in Cape Verde without event. Good to know.
N KRE KELI: during the past week, we began technical training, which introduced us to societal problems that exist in Cape Verde and gave us some basic tools for community development. I went home excited. In fact, I went home wanting to join the Peace Corps. Which was the first solid sign that I’m going to last here. Huzzah!
DIXIE WORLD: about 30 minutes ago, I heard the General Lee’s distinctive horn blaring from a truck on the other side of the valley. God bless America.
SICKO: most people have been more or less healthy so far, myself included. A lot of them have experienced fleeting diarrhea or nausea, which I have thankfully managed to avoid. But my head has been kind of messed up since I got here. My lips swelled up and felt raw after the first week. I kind of thought that I was getting impetigo, but the doctor told me to just use chapstick. A week later, it was worse (I’d also had a terrible sunburn on my face in that interim, which didn’t help). I wanted to talk to the doctor again when we had an all-hands in Assomada that Wednesday, but they skipped out early. I called the next day and never got a call back. I called the next day, talked to the other doctor, and didn’t get a call back. That Saturday, when I was supposed to go with all the other volunteers on a field trip to the beach town of Tarrafal, I got four calls from two different PC medical people. They asked me how I was, told me they were sending medicine (to Assomada, which is 40 minutes away), and advised me not to go on the field trip. My reaction: thanks, guys, for waiting until my chin and lymph nodes are swollen and until it’s time to hit the sand before you decide to help me. I planned to go anyway and pick up my medicine later, but with that fourth call, the doctor nixed my designs: he said that he would accompany the medicine to Assomada and I could meet him there to be examined. I half-believe that he was doing that just to keep me away from Tarrafal, but I appreciated his effort (it’s an hour ride from Praia), so I met him there. On the way, I passed a few crowds of fellow PC trainees who were waiting along the roadside to be picked up in the other direction (toward Tarrafal). We chatted. “Oh you’re going to the beach? That’s nice. Yeah, I wanted to, but I’m getting this skin infection checked out. Yep, catch you later!” Fortunately, when I met the doctor, the swelling turned out to be much less severe than he had expected, and he toned down his recommendation to stay home (he also gave me a gigantic tube of the goop, which is great, because I can save it… I get impetigo once or twice a year and it’s much better if you cut it off early). So, naturally, I took the next Yace to Tarrafal. It was impeccably beautiful, I found my friends, I had a wonderful day, and my head is almost back to normal.
ANGRA: this was on Sunday. Angra is a beach just up the coast that is only accessible by foot or by boat, and for no particular reason, they have a huge party there once a year. You pay about 65 cents to ride over along the coast in a glorified wooden dinghy (I kind of want to buy one – they build them right here on the other side of the valley). The largest dinghies only hold about 10 or 15 people, but by 3pm they’d managed to get nearly 1,000 people on this beach with live music, a stage, a barbecue, and a captain’s stockpile of the local favorite: a beer called Super Bock. People danced on the black sand, jumped from the rocks, and frolicked all day long. Oh, it was nice.
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