Praia do Mar

Today, I walked to the beach. Since my arrival two months ago, I had gently avoided this. Fear of robbery and harrassment, vergonha of my whiter-than-white stomach and general laziness kept me away. As I stood at Cruz de Papa, the brightly colored park looking over the end of the plateau that is Achada Santo Antonio, I almost turned back. The sight of the waves crashing out beyond the dirty coast stirred in me only disappointment. After spending the weekend on the stunning beaches of Maio, the dirt-brown sand and cloudy water of quebra canela seemed a sad joke.

The sound of running water woke me up with a start around six. An irrational fear that it was I wasting the valuable resource tore me out of bed, but just by standing I realized that the sound was coming from elsewhere. Once vertical, the sleep drained through my feet and, though my body was tired and my eyes not yet awake, I knew there was no turning back. My muscles echoed the previous evening’s run and my stomach, normally ready for breakfast before laying down for bed, was calm from the previous night’s feast.

As I stood by my bed, I remembered fondly the feeling of submersion. While traveling around and learning Maio, I took every opportunity to enter the water. Each time seemed better than the last as I let the powerful waves toss me around. The sand on Maio was white and clean and stretched for miles. I have never seen blues that could rival the shades of the ocean and the water was so clear that discarded fin of some fisherman’s morning catch was sighted, dancing gracefully at our feet.

I fought to suppress these images of the idyllic Maio coastline while standing, frozen in indecision. Embarrassment of my fear urged me on and I decided I may as well at least let my feet touch the water, if not for me, for everyone I know who does not live 15 minutes from the ocean. For the entirety of the descent-at least ten flights of stairs separating me from the coast-sleep tempted me from behind my eyes. When I finally reached sand, I could not help but smile. The sound of the water gently rolling in and out deafened the bitter sarcasm that immediately arose as I noticed the trash scattered everywhere. The reason for the dirt-brown sand was that it truly was dirt, a few scattered grains of sand held it together in some semblance of “beach.”

For years, the sand has been stripped from beaches in Cape Verde to mix cement for the rapid development of new houses. This once abundant natural resource has been so overused that it is now being imported for the development of tourism. The result is a few isolated privately (foreign) owned, subsidized beautiful sand beaches, and the dirt left for everyone else.

I realized how absurd I had been to fear this “task” as I watched a handful people walk up and down the confined stretch. A few pudgy foreigners created a humorous contrast to the dark, sculpted figure engaged in his morning calisthenics. My body laughed at my mind’s temptation to join them, so instead, I gingerly removed my sandals and slowly paced the water-land threshold, open ocean lapping at my feet. In a few short minutes, I removed my shirt, clustered my belongings safely behind a rock, and stepped in. The floor was not even and even less visible, so when my foot touched something hard, I immediately began to swim in a mere two feet of water. The name of the beach, quebra canela-quebra meaning break and canela meaning shin-began to make sense as the small but powerful waves tossed me around, my feet grazing the myriad of rocks that lay hidden beneath the dirty swells. My confidence grew though as I headed out and paddled around in deeper waters. Whatever fear that initially kept me from coming was pushed to the side as I swam on. It took me two months to get here, there’s no turning back now.

praia ka sabi

On a hot day, it’s hard to tell if it is the heat or wind that gives the air its hazy glow. Sitting outside the churrasqueria, the smoke from the grill combats the faint odor of trash wafting from a nearby dumpster. Though hidden from the sun by a tattered awning, I keep my sunglasses on to protect my eyes from the constant battering of sand, dirt and god knows what else carried in the breeze. Nearby, a woman’s dress is lifted flirtatiously and dances in the breeze as she stands perched on 4 inch stiletto heels, impossibly balanced on the cobblestone road. The brightly patterned cloth seems nothing more than an accessory as her full chest nearly pours into the window of the car by which she stands. Dogs and children play in the street nearby.

I am surprised every day by how dirty Praia is. My alarm jars me at 6 a.m. to run, but it is the few moments of peace that exist before the city wakes that gets me out of bed. As I step out into the sunrise, my foot lands in a dirty plastic bag that once held the trash now covering my doorstep. A faint rotting smell rises up around me that I know will only get worse as the sun bakes the dirty streets. For now though, it is cool and quiet.

A few fellow joggers pass by as I watch the street dogs play. Males swarm around females with a playful/threatening air. At least once a week I run past a pack of young dogs mounting some poor bitch and I can’t help but think of the way drunk men gather around scantily clothed, full figured girls as parties carry on into the night. Life here is raw.

I shake these thoughts from my head as I pick up the pace from walk to run. I miss fresh air. Though I am less than a mile from the ocean, what I breathe is heavy and putrid. Though the water is in sight, the sound of waves is swallowed by cars rattling by, spewing exhaust into the air. The steady pace of my footfall brings me peace. Despite the sounds and smells around me, I am able to push on.

A few dogs give a wary glance and a cat streaks from the dumpster as I pass. The scattered trash is brightened by fallen flower petals from the glorious bougainvillea peeking out from over the fence. It seems a miracle that flowers continue to bloom in such circumstances. It is April. It hasn’t rained in seven months, yet the bright purple flowers persevere, a reminder of the resilience of life in dire circumstances.

I have often wondered with amazement how people manage to squeeze out an existence in places such as this. Without people, Cape Verde is nothing but barren rocks, volcanic slopes and alternating stretches of beach and rocky coastline. Unlike the evolutionary Galapagos teeming with life, the islands of Cape Verde would serve as a stopping point for turtles and a few adventurous species of birds. Small lizards will scurry from underfoot, but the dogs, though wild, are not indigenous. Cows are hardly sustained, and the rooster whose cry can be heard even in the city streets is as much an immigrant as I. Goats could survive here, but would never have survived the commute from the continent, almost 400 miles away. Neither would have pigs, cats, horses and donkeys.

And people? I guess there would be people here regardless. In some, there is an undeniable force pushing towards elsewhere. Think of all the inhabited islands in the South Pacific... Since the beginning of time, man has wandered the land under his feet. When he ran out of land, he developed a way to chase the horizon. When he ran out of horizon, he set his sight on the stars. I too shall chase the stars, but let us not forget the ground on which we already stand and those with whom we stand. How many times has it been said that a bundle is stronger than a single strand, yet those who have a bundle will refuse refuge for a single strand. Those with a few will give to all while those with a single strand are too afraid to join together to create a bundle.

I guess what I am saying is that we are all in this together. The good, the bad, the ugly, beleza and everything in between.

Praia so sabi

It is hard for me to believe that I have been back in Cape Verde for just over a week. It is already beginning to feel like I never left. It is wonderful to be immersed again in Kriolu and the simplicity of life here-despite the differences from my previous home on Fogo.
Praia, the capital, is home to almost half of the population of Cape Verde. It is very much a developing city, proudly displaying major changes from when I left in August. The streets are slowly being paved. There is a single traffic light that dangles precariously above a chaotic intersection. Buildings burst from the ground with the urgency and rapidity that corn grows in my former rural village. People rush from one place to the next, ignoring the obligatory greetings that I had grown to love.
There is trash and filth in the street, unfinished buildings and street children around every corner, but also unexpected beauty. Gardens of cacti peek out over fences and fountains of azaleas pour over balconies breathing life into the street in intervals of purple and pink. Though not always visible, the ocean is always just around the corner. On a clear day, the sky and the ocean dance together in a celebration of blue. Traffic noises melt away at the sight of the turning sky, the blue of the ocean begging the sky not to leave as it changes to its fiery evening robes.
Though I have been to Praia many times, the city is still a mystery to me. I have spent each day taking different routes, losing myself and trying to find my way back home. I take the bus to and from work. I am overwhelmed by the amount of options and have begun to search for the cheapest grocery stores and most reliable market ladies. There are many more foreigners here, so my presence does not command as much attention on the street. It does, however, make me more of a target. I am very aware of my surroundings and am hesitant to step out.
My apartment is wonderful. There are bookshelves that I will never fill, an adorable green couch that is deceptively uncomfortable and a tiny kitchen that is perfect for one. An unbelievably old clothes washing machine is nestled in the corner of the bathroom and I lean out the bedroom window to dry my clothes on a line, five stories from the ground. The most beautiful thing is the wooden staircase that greets you as you enter and brings you up over the sala de estar to the kitchen. The bookshelves and table are wood. The bedstead and chairs are wood. Even the bathroom door is wood. I may not have trees here to hug, but there is comfort in the polished grain of this desk.

deals to die for?

In this, the season of generosity and thanksgiving, we live in a country where a man was killed in a shopping frenzy. In the midst of an economic recession, an employee was trampled to death at 5 a.m. opening the doors to a New York Wal-Mart, America’s notorious bargain junk warehouse.

Imagine you are a 34 year old man. After a day of giving thanks with family, you wake up early to “kick off” the holiday shopping frenzy. You arrive at work around 4:30 a.m., an hour unfit for much of anything and find that the customers have beat you there, some bundled in sleeping bags, some huddled together for warmth, others just waiting to beat down the doors.

The frost is starting to re-form on the windshields of the cars around you as you pull in to park. You mumble greetings to your co-workers, none too thrilled to be there, and the frenzy in the eyes of the customers in the line stretching beyond your sight is a reminder that it is going to be a long day.

Residual cheer from the day before encourages you to volunteer to open the store. As you make your way to the double glass doors, the number of people you see on the other side is overwhelming. “At least the sales will take some of the pressure off,” you think to yourself as you paint the greeter’s smile across your chapping lips.

The click of the lock opening is the last sound you hear as the roar of the crowd rises up and approaches you. That click reverberates in your ear as you are pummeled by shattered glass, shouting voices, rumbling carts and thunderous footsteps pouring across the threshold.

The wave hits and knocks you to the ground and you hear your shout join the cacophony of panicked screams. In the sea of bodies, noises and colors, it is impossible to determine what hit you and where, but the panic has turned to pain and it is getting harder to breathe. As the pain drowns out the chaos that surrounds you, you catch the chorus of a remake of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” meant to welcome the customers with holiday cheer.

A woman’s elbow violently wipes the lone tear that falls as you picture the faces of your family gathered around the plentiful meal whose remnants you brought for lunch, but will never eat.

This is America- land of the spree, home of the mall. This is the season of joy and charity. For this man’s family, “Black Friday” takes on a different meaning as they don the mournful color and gather again, this time not in thanks, but in remembrance of a man who gave his life in the battle for a better bargain.

As we are all subjected to America’s sales, discounts and the pursuit of materialism, I urge you to pause for a moment, take a deep breath and be grateful. Despite the hard economic times, we have many things to be thankful for- our lives for one.

these days...

Coming back to the US after two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer means encountering many expected and unexpected challenges. Before returning, Peace Corps does their best to brace you for the anticipated ones. Volunteers are given lists of possible frustrations, tips for reestablishing personal and professional lives and, of course, personal accounts of other RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers). In these personal accounts, the grocery store is almost always cited as ground zero for culture shock. Each one I have read has gracefully articulated the sudden realization that there are just too many options while standing in the cereal isle. For me, it was salad dressing. It suddenly became clear to me how there could be an obesity epidemic as I stood motionless in the middle of the isle. Currents of whining children and frazzled mothers passed me on both sides while miles of cookies, soda and potato chips stretched off into the distant horizon.

I find myself hesitant in almost all public places, especially if there is an exchange of currency for merchandise involved. Each step takes much more cognitive preparation than necessary and the smallest tasks become overwhelming. I remind myself not to stare, slack jawed and stupid eyed, as I take in the millions of products that seem to spring from the earth in a locust-like manner. I like to “practice.” I go to the grocery store and wander for hours before returning to buy groceries. I scope out department stores with awe and terror, but have yet to purchase anything. When I realized that I would need a cell phone, I painstakingly researched the newest technology - and after two years… it was frightening - so that I could at least appear a little savvy underneath the “deer-in-the-headlights” look I knew would give me away.

I picked a day to go make my purchase and set up a plan. That morning I made sure to get up as usual, go for my morning run and eat a hearty breakfast. I examined my scarce wardrobe and picked clothes that I felt said “I am mature and capable, despite the fact that I am unemployed and intimidated by your technology.” It seemed to work while I led the associate around the store, asking various questions and carefully examining each shining model in front of me. Thankfully, it was busy. I shared the associate with other customers and was grateful for the break so that I could walk to the corner and appear to scrutinize a certain phone and its accessories while actually giving myself a pep talk and casting cursory glances to make sure no one had caught on.

After a modest amount of time, I chose the most simple phone available (no berries for me, thank-you-very-much), and proceeded to the counter to sign away my life and keep my spinning head under control as the associate read me my rights. I must admit, I was pretty proud of myself while the numbers were transferred from my ancient phone to the sleek little piece of equipment I could now call my own. I could not help but smile as I congratulated myself for not only keeping my cool, but accomplishing the task at hand.

The same self-assured smile was painted across my lips as I walked to my car. It was a beautiful day, I was capable and… my purse was making a strange noise. I didn’t know what to think. I had only purchased this phone a few minutes ago and it was already ringing. Curious, I answered.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Ms. Flood?” a voice responded.

“Yes. Who is this please?”

“I am calling from the _________ store where you just purchased your cell phone. You seem to have left your wallet here.”

I nearly choked on my smug grin as I turned around and headed back to retrieve my things. My humility returned to me in time to make a smooth recovery, and I arrived at home later unscathed with both my wallet and new cell phone in tow. I have since encountered other challenges and anticipate many more as I reestablish myself, but this particular one has stayed with me. Strength and support sometimes come in the most unexpected places and in such a large and intimidating world, it is nice to know that there are people watching out for you.

CHUVA!!

It rained last night. I went to bed and woke up to the soft sound of rain drops. I could almost hear the earth breathing out a sigh of relief as the land that had been parched by the sun since September 28th received its first sign of relief of water. The rich smell of life filled my soul today as I made my way outside amongst the low hanging clouds of moisture.

Though this will not directly impact the planting or harvest of the year, the air seemed a little fresher, everyone seemed a little more calm and hope seemed to spring up from the ground like the first signs of green.

Beautiful.

on a lighter note

I seem to vaguely remember pulling a few grey hairs out of my head in the time before I came here. Every now and then the light in the bathroom would catch a particularly shiny, awkwardly placed hair sticking out of the top of my head. I would quick draw my tweezers and in a flash of vanity, it would be no more.

Today I returned to my house after a particularly tiring and frustrating day. All I wanted to do was wash the grime of the city off my face. I removed my hat and leaned over the sink in eager anticipation for that refreshing splash of water. As I flipped the faucet, a dry dusty sound was all that greeted me. No water. In exasperation I looked up to see a complex network of grey hairs running across the top of my head. Like the interstate highway system, my head is now riddled with winding, nonsensical streaks of grey. When did this happen?

I am going to be 25 next week. Sounds pretty young, huh? I can’t believe that I arrived here with just 23 years to my name. Two short years later I am still boasting small numbers, but I feel that I have aged in ways that I cannot even begin to name. There are always the physically manifested signs of aging. I will return with my new network of shiny grey hair, the many wrinkles around my eyes and sprinkling my face with signs of “wisdom” and “experience,” back pain, unexplained yet frequent weight changes and the marks of the sun splattered across my arms and shoulders… to name a few. However, age cannot be measured in numbers or in physical changes. It is experience that really marks age. There is something about stepping outside of a comfort zone that exposes life in its most raw a true forms. Birth, life, love, pain, grief, death, grading… all of these have aged me.

chora

We like to think that we are all unique individuals, but there are many universal certainties in the human experience. We are all born of someone, have lived and will die. It can be argued that we have all felt love, pain, grief and hope, but you would have to verify that first. I have existed as a human being for 25 years, and am beginning to see through what we have made of living and to the very core of life. There is something about the smallness and proximity of life here that amplifies what is most basic. Joy comes in waves, pouring over each household and bringing smiles and good will to all faces. Tragedy and suffering also come barreling through, washing over all that gets in its way. Changes in mood can be felt like a sudden change in temperature or turning of the wind.

Each time a child is born, there is a festa. The mother lies in bed for a week accepting visitors that come to congratulate and examine the new addition to the community. The seventh day is marked with the festa, and the giving of the name.

Weddings, though rare, can upset the entire community for weeks. The dispidida de solteira (goodbye single life) is held a week before the wedding and there seem to be parties straight through until the single life really is gone.

And death. What can I possibly say about death.

Death is death, no matter where you live. A person is here, and then they are no longer. How it is felt and how it is managed is what varies from culture to culture. When someone dies in Cape Verde, there is a week of mourning expressed through “chora,” or crying. Unlike the subtle, reflective tears of the US, this crying is like an eruption from the heart. In melodic harmony, women’s voices pour out in a chorus of loss. Possibly originated from lack of means of communication, the chora carries over fields and across ribeiras to reach the ears of those nearby. The cries are mixed with a song of prayer for those who have been lost. There is a plea to god to accept their arrival in peace and a plea for the peace of those left behind. For seven days, the family sits in the house and receives family, friends, neighbors and everyone in between. Each new arrival brings forth a new round of chora. For many, the visit is obligatory and the grief is mixed with their own.

I have been fortunate not to have lost anyone close during my 25 years. Though I have been to wakes and funerals in the states, they rarely hit close to home. Grief was colored with empathy as I mourned for the losses of my friends and their families. Until recently, I would have said the same for my experience here. Within months of arriving at site I went to my first visit. The bedridden grandmother of my best student passed away in the night. I remember the shock of being led around, shaking each hand and offering consolation in the midst of a room filled with hearts being poured out for all to hear. I was moved to tears just from the grief of others. Over the following months I went to one visit after another. Family members of friends, neighbors and people I had never met. One year ago my friend’s grandfather died. He lived a 15 minute walk from my house, but I had never met him. Each day that I went to the visit was a reminder that I had never visited him while he was alive.

After moving to Curral Grande, I found that I had almost started over from the beginning. There were some people that knew me from a festa or other appearance nearby. People knew about Peace Corps and were quick to learn my name, but I found myself in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Within the first month I went to three separate visits without having known who died. Since, each month has brought new news of death. One day I met the father of one of my students by the local bar. He was a notorious drunk, abrasive and annoying, though apparently was once an excellent teacher. Two weeks later, I was visiting his house in his memory.

There was an older woman, Dulce, who befriended my roommate. I met her on occasion, though never made it to her house for a visit. Her husband was sick, though she appeared healthy. The day her husband died, she suffered a severe stroke. Less than a month later, she too passed away. The news of her death arrived in the wake of that of Da Luz, the mother of eleven children - two of whom are my students and many of whom are good friends and active youth in the community - and the first person I ever met in Lomba. It was as if a dark cloud had stormed into the community and upended it overnight.

Weeks later, I find that there is still a heaviness in the air. Change always brings a period of adjustment, and loss even more so. In her book, For the Time Being, Annie Dillard points out that we, the living, are outnumbered by the dead almost 14:1. She quotes Stalin in saying “One death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic.” How sadly true. Yet, though one cannot know a million people, never mind be personally connected to all, each one of that million is a tragedy to some.

I thought that I could find peace, or pay some tribute in writing this, but like that statistic, for those that do not know these women and have not felt their loss, they are another number. Regardless, I wish them and their families peace. Life is already continuing with other joys and tragedies waiting ahead. Our fleeting existence will soon be erased and forgotten. To feel loss as a tragedy is a gift. It is our responsibility to use that gift, to love to live and to lose.