just passing through

Fifteen months after my Peace Corps service began, I find myself pretty much at home. 12 Winter St; Sheehy Hall; O’Leary Library, 4th floor; Trader Joe’s; Wachusett Mountain; whichever places I have briefly called home for whatever reasons seem as far away and dreamlike as my future home in Cape Verde once did. The familiarity of beaten paths off the cobblestone road is jarred by the brief flash of sidewalks and driveways. Lack of anonymity has grown into a fondness of never being alone or unknown. I find myself, less than 5K away, homesick for Ponta Verde, not the states.

It’s not so much that I don’t miss home, I have just become very accustomed to living here. I like knowing all my neighbors and greeting them each time I leave the house. I like knowing the woman that grows and sells me my vegetables. I like the overenthusiastic shouts of my 7th grade students and breaking through the “too cool” attitude of my 8th graders. I like the simplicity, transparency and hospitality that permeates all aspects of life.

This is not to say there aren’t things that I don’t like. Like a late-stage game of Jenga, the infrastructure of government, health care, transportation and education were built high and hastily on a foundation ridden with faults and gaps. This becomes evident when simple tasks are run through each hole and around each corner, taking six times longer than conceivably possible and somehow coming out on the other side not quite the way intended. There are general, little frustrations that arise from this lack of infrastructure, unexpected delays, expected delays and the general dismissal of tasks.

Though this too can be frustrating, there are some things that become almost routine in their routine lack of efficiency, like transportation. In a misty daydream I vaguely remember being frustrated that the T in Boston stopped running at the ungodly hour of 1am (2am?), and that the red line sometimes took upwards of 20 minutes to arrive. I look back on these absurd frustrations with a fondness that only a non-native island resident can truly comprehend. I have regularly walked upwards of 7K just waiting for a car to pass. I have sat in the oppressive heat of São Filipe waiting for an hour for the driver of the one lonely car to decide that it was time to drive around the city for 40 minutes gathering passengers from the sleepy streets. I have been crammed into a seat, six across plus two children on laps, purchases and travel gear in tow, next to an old woman routinely emptying the contents of her sick stomach into a leaky plastic bag. I have endured showers of partially chewed peanuts and other assorted refreshments with an accompaniment of vulgar comments and narrative that only a half-deaf, toothless, senile old man would be able to muster. I have prayed for my life and the lives of those around me to the gospel of glaring funana as the crazed driver whipped around corners on vertigo inducing drop offs. Mostly though, I have waited… and waited.

Recently, while waiting for a car after my daily battle of molding young minds, I was blessed in a strange way. As I sat on the wall (an extremely common position for all who do not have qualms with a dirty bum) the woman who has been cooking for the primary school students longer than I have been alive graced me with her company. This being the first time we met, we exchanged the typical formalities; name, number of children, if I have arranged a husband here, where in the states I am from, how many family members she has in the states, etc. As the conversation moved in the direction of America, I feared the typical “America é sabi! La ten tudu koizas!” (America is cool! It has everything!) This is generally followed by me explaining that not everything is great in America, that there is poverty equal to the poverty here, that there are also a lot of things that Cape Verde has that America does not, that even though there is everything, everything in America requires a lot of money and a lot of work, etc. I was pleasantly surprised when this wise and beautiful woman made a more convincing argument against the poorly informed blanket comments about the sabi-ness of America than I could ever hope to.

She spoke of a pastor that she was good friends with who had lived in both Cape Verde and America. Though he was initially pleased with the opportunity to live and do his work in the US, this pleasure drained as he spent time there. After passing a few years in the US, he gratefully returned to Cape Verde completely disenchanted with America. During his service there he found himself disappointed in the way people treated and dealt with one another. In the second-hand words of the woman, “Na ‘Merka, tempo é só dinheiro. Alguen ka ten tempo outro alguen.” (In America, time is just money. People don’t have time for one another.) Though she may not know this first hand, the impressions of the pastor had certainly made an impression on her. This is not an entirely uncommon response when speaking with someone who has some knowledge or experience in regards to lifestyle in the states. The wisdom of this woman shone through her reported commentary when she spoke “nos é só passageiros.” (we are all just passengers.) This may not be the most enlightening comment ever spoken, but at the moment, in the context, I was humbled.

Here I am, living on a tiny speck of rock in a, depending on perspective, fairly large body of water. Both of these masses belong to a much larger mass that is the planet on which we are all, more or less, passengers making a brief appearance. This modest sense of existence was further ratified much later (after I finally arrived in the city) when I was sent this link. http://www.rense.com/general72/size.htm

The idea of being passengers is a both humbling and a little funny. As the woman and I spoke, we spoke of the fact that there is a certain amount of ambiguity and distance involved in being a passenger. When was the last time you greeted or made conversation with the strangers that shared the bus or train with you? In America it is more common to simply remain comfortably in our personal existences. There is a certain amount of respect and acknowledgement shown as we get up to allow the elderly, sick or pregnant person to sit, but the inquiry “how are you?... how is life treating you?... how is your family?” very rarely make an appearance. In Cape Verde, you can’t get away without at least a simple greeting. There is not the rush to get to the next destination. There is not the desire to wallow in a private existence. Instead, it is the company on the voyage and the combined existence that matters. Though it may take a little longer to get to the desired destination, the overall trip becomes infinitely more warm and enjoyable. Besides, when we are all on such a brief journey in such a tiny existence, shouldn’t it at least be a pleasant trip?