The 2011 IKURU census, otherwise known as a tour of Nampula´s seediest hostels, like the epic Golden Anchor in Namialo or the Cave Negra (Black Cave) in Malema, was an immense job of about three weeks in the field (bush). We ran on fumes mostly, getting 4-6 hours of sleep, driving three to eight hours a day on terrible dirt roads/goat paths in a beat up Toyota Hillux that was more dead than alive. But we completed about 90% of the planned job, and are now hard at work organizing the massive amount of data to please the various interested parties.

It was great traveling with four Mozambicans. My Portuguese got much better, and I learned lots of Mozambican slang. Lisboa and Lagres are big conversationalists, so we had lively debates about politics, news, life, education, work. I learned a lot about Mozambican life, customs, beliefs. All of my colleagues believe in healers, witches, omens, spells, magic potions, and more. I learned a meal is not a meal without meat. We ate shrimp, dried and fresher than fresh, crab, rockfish, can after can of sardines, lots of chicken, goat, a suckling pig and an adult pig, and gazelle.

Our biggest problems were car-related. In Malema the mechanic first asked for 3,500mts ($100). We got him down to 1,500, still a rip-off, of which 500 he shared with the first “mechanic” called. We were 9 hours late to our meeting as a result of several occurrences, like taking forever to make French fries for breakfast, charging an already charged car battery, chasing down a mechanic, waiting for him to BS to earn more money and invent problems to solve, negotiating or rather begging him to lower the price and forget that the car has USAID plastered all over it and a white dude in the passenger seat. To top it off, he didn´t have a receipt, and said he would only get us one for 200mts, or about $6, which is absurd of course. We paid out of pocket for the work, knowing full well that without an official receipt a reimbursement is unlikely. These districts where we travel don´t have ATMs, but we don´t carry much money in case of theft, and we pay out of pocket hoping accounting will have paid our lodging and meal advances or reimbursements.

On the return trip from Iapaca, around 1900, after chasing a rabbit for dinner in the car, we saw sparks fly from under the hood. Lisboa stopped the car, popped the hood, and I saw that the bar normally screwed down to hold the battery popped loose and the fuse cover nowhere to be found. Not only did the mechanic screw us on price, which should have been 800-1,000mts, but he didn´t screw down the battery. As a consequence, the wire connected to the positive terminal was severed and the battery was bouncing around the engine compartment.

This is criminal negligence. A sparking battery could´ve set the engine aflame, and as there often aren´t gas stations in the districts, we had several 20L gas cans in the bed. As it was, we were hung out to dry in the middle of nowhere with no hope of a mechanic, and possibly with large animals roaming in the bushes.

Lagres cut some of the wire securing the grill and used it to wire the battery cable back together. The nut holding the bar in place was lost in the engine compartment, so Abel cut several lengths of the rope holding the tarp in the bed in place, which Lisboa and Lagres used to tie the battery in place, knowing full well that a plastic rope in a toasty engine compartment wrapped around an acidy battery isn´t a great solution. But graças a Deus (thank God) we made it to Malema, to continue limping along.

Traveling in rural Nampula made me forget to ask certain questions, like:

Is this towel clean?

Is this water safe to drink?

Did the cook wash his hands?

Can I go this way?

Is this a road?

Should I eat this?

Do you have soap/toilet paper?

Are these eggs cage-free?

Where´s the nearest WiFi hotspot?

Why?

Is there a gas station around here?

What is that smell?

What kind of meat is this?

Is this a urinal or a shower?

And finally some notable quotes from the IKURU survey:

Há um discurso sobre a ponte (There is a discussion about the bridge, ie “We don´t know if the bridge still exists.”

Esta discoteca cheira de peixe seco (This disco smells like dried fish)

The last few weeks have been extremely busy with work. My first assignment in Nampula is to co-supervise a survey of a 20,000 member farmers cooperative. The first week and a half a colleague and I ran between three offices editing the survey to the liking of various partners, all of which have different perspectives and goals for it. Eventually we whittled it down from seven pages to two surveys of two pages each, both much more focused and objective than the original.

In parallel we tried to work out logistics, like arranging a car, getting money in advance to pay food and lodging expenses, scheduling meetings with associations and forums (comprised of 5-15 associations), and coordinating with field technicians.

Finally on 29/03/11 we got into the field with our three survey takers. We traveled approximately 700km over six days almost entirely on awful dirt roads and what seemed to be goat trails. It can take two hours to go less than 50km. We have to hit nine districts (like counties) in three weeks, about 29 forums, 282 associations, and 30 women´s groups.

Travel takes a toll, driving sometimes six hours a day on jarring roads, sweating in 90-100º heat, sleeping 4-6 hours in whatever lodging is available, often not eating lunch. Once, before heading to Moma from Angoche, we asked a man we on the road which of two possible routes was better. Not accustomed to speaking Portuguese, and wanting to sound formal, he said, "There is a discussion about the bridge on that route," ie "We don´t know if the bridge still exists." We elected the other route, which involved one earthen bridge and crossing a stream.

On the other hand, it´s great talking to the farmers, seeing so much of rural Nampula Province, getting to know my four colleagues, speaking Portuguese almost exclusively, eating incredible seafood, going places foreigners or even most Mozambicans never go. The task is daunting, but it´s much better than sitting around at my last job wondering when I would next have something to do.

On Friday we head out again, for around 10 days, to hopefully finish the survey. After that analyzing the data and writing reports and catching up on work that should´ve been done but was over which the survey took precedence.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Osukuru!

Here are some things that happened recently:

-I celebrated a birthday and prepared to move to Nampula, in northern Mozambique. The other volunteers and our friends sent me off in style, though it was very hard leaving them after we´ve become so close in the last six months. Peace Corps really is the best America has to offer the world.

-I left my going away party to witness a caesarian section at a local hospital. The baby and mother were fine, and I was impressed by the doctors´ skill and professionalism. I returned less than an hour later to find my food ready.

-I tried to mail my grandparents a letter. It cost 92 meticais (singular: metical, MZN, or mt), about $3.00, to mail internationally. I had a 100 metical note and no coins, which have denominations of 0.5, 1, 2, 5, and 10 meticais. The smaller notes are 20, 50, 100, and 200 meticais. Anyway, the postal worker informed me the post office only accepted exact change, and after I admitted I didn´t have it, she gave me back the letter. Sorry Grandma and Grandpa!

-Driving approximately 200km to the airport to fly to Nampula, we were stopped twice by the police. My colleague, in a rush to leave Chimoio, forgot his identity card. You always need lots of documentation for official business: visas, bank accounts, ID cards, etc. The police are not equipped with computers to check your insurance status if you don´t have proof in the car.

To facilitate the continuation of our journey without identification and for not respecting the speed limit, it was strongly encouraged that we contribute 400 meticais at the first stop and 200 meticais at the second ($20 in total). Or the car could have been impounded and my colleague fined perhaps 10x as much.

At some point in this adventure, my colleague´s wife gave birth. Congratulations!

-I moved into a posh fully furnished apartment in Nampula, complete with such amenities as AC, hot running water, a refrigerator, microwave, Panini maker, gas oven, television, and maid.

While aside from the maid these things may seem mundane, for almost two years in Cape Verde I lived in a concrete box which featured a bed with moldy mattress, plastic table with four chairs, gas oven, 8,000 liter rainwater catchment tank which had to last ten months for three people, and no hope of electricity.

While I certainly appreciate the new digs, I still prefer the country to the city, at least in Africa, even if it means living in a concrete box with no electricity, running water, or internet access. I don´t anticipate moving to Webberville or Bath once back in Michigan, however.

Anyway thanks for reading. I´ll try to up my blogging in the few remaining months.

I’ve received several requests for blog posts from Mozambique (Moz). The requesters clearly didn’t follow my questionably interesting blog from Cape Verde (CV). To reflect the change of location, I’ve changed the name from “Sunburned in Cape Verde,” to “Maningue Nice in Mozambique.” Maningue is kind of like “very” in Mozambican Portuguese. I´m still as susceptible to sunburns as ever. They can be maningue bad if you know what I´m saying...

To bring you up to date, I finished two years of service in CV as a Small Enterprise Development Peace Corps (SED) Volunteer (PCV), and then flew to Mozambique to serve as a Food Security Peace Corps Response Volunteer (PCRV) for nine months, ending in May 2011. Both are Lusophone (Portuguese-speaking, like Anglophone or Francophone), though Mozambicans commonly speak Portuguese due to the myriad and often not mutually intelligible dialects.

I’ve been in Moz nearly 6 months. I´ve clearly been lazy about blogging but hope to turn over a new leaf and post shorter stuff once a week or so. I´m pretty much used to living in Mozambique, after two years in CV. There I lived in one of the most rural PCV sites. In Moz I live in one of the bigger cities, Manica Province capital Chimoio, larger than Praia the capital of CV. Maputo, the capital of Moz has about 2 million inhabitants, four times CV.

I found myself missing CV at lot at first. Living in a city I don’t get a great handle on Moz and Mozambicans. Chimoio could be any mid-sized African city. From what I`ve seen over the last few years, the heart of a developing country is in the rural areas. It makes sense, as these are mainly agrarian countries.

Living in a CV village of 800, I got to know the people, made friends, understood how they lived. People here seem serious about education and development of the country, which has immense potential. After decades of war, Moz wants to avoid conflict. It´s been through too much. Mozambicans are generally open and interested, though city folk in tend to be more inverted, whether in Moz, CV, or the US. I wish I lived in a rural area. Wherever I go, I attract attention as, like the Peace Corps Medical Officer in CV called me, “a very white man,” or “mzungu” in local dialect.

Everything I do, no matter how mundane, is strange and/or hilarious to some Mozambicans, as a mzungu. Running? Outrageous. Eating in the market with normal Mozambicans? Unexpected (“High risk of contamination,” according to my supervisor. “The shittiest place I´ve ever eaten,” according to another PCV who has traveled widely). Riding in a “chapa” (Toyota minivan with 30 people unbelievably crammed in)? Absurd. In general this doesn´t bother me much, though the assumption I´m rich does.

I work for an organization called AgriFUTURO which seeks to increase agricultural competitiveness in Moz through access to credit, “modern” farming techniques, technical assistance, access to markets, linking value chain stakeholders. USAID funds the project, implemented by several organizations.

The September food riots in Maputo and Chimoio highlighted the importance of food security, as the cost of living continues to rise. At least 10 protesters in Maputo and three in Chimoio were killed. I´d been in Moz two weeks. Luckily things calmed down after a few days.

I’ve noticed Moz is quieter than CV. Cape Verdeans are a vibrant and expressive people, always looking to celebrate. People look for excuses to dance or drink or play music. A child´s first birthday is reason to party until sunrise. CV is renowned for music. I could count on a concert every month or so in São Filipe, a town of 15,000. Chimoio, with 200,000, hasn´t had one yet. Chimoio has one discoteca (Coqueiro), São Filipe had at least eight (Alfredo´s, Faixa de Terra, Chaqrinha, Casa de Padja, Brava, Fogo em Chama, Casa Cinema, Mar Azul, and more). By the end of service, finally learning to dance well enough, I looked forward to nearly weekly discotecas or dances.

All right I´ll leave it at that. I just wanna dance! Thanks for reading and I´ll try to get better about posting.

Note: I started this awhile ago, but am finishing from Chã das Caldeiras. And now from São Filipe. And now from Lisbon.

I’m writing from Mosteiros, the second town on Fogo. Tuesday I made the three hour hike from a mile up to sea level, passing through fields of beans and vegetables, the Monte Velha protected forest, coffee plantations, citrus farms, and finally bananas and mangos. Jonny and Josh live here, the two closest PCVs to me. There are some in Cova Figueira who are around that close, but I don’t know the trail. There’s a good chance of hitching a ride there, however, as I recently did with two French tourists and a bus full of census workers celebrating a job well done.

Fortunately the mango season is (was) in full swing. They are big, meaty, sweet, and cheap. About five weigh two pounds, and cost around $0.08 each, yep, eight American cents. Unfortunately there’s really no mango preservation except for the odd jam. No mango juicers, mango canneries, mango drying, mango exporting. Over Christmas in Michigan I bought three flavorless mangoes for $2. We eat them excessively, putting them in every dish possible. Jonny made a spectacular mango chicken dish. I made bean burritos with mango salsa.

Cooking here is nice because you do everything from scratch. It’s simpler, healthier, and in my opinion, more enjoyable. Somehow a completely homemade tortilla or pumpkin pie tastes better than the store-bought equivalents (which certainly aren’t available on Fogo). That said I prefer store bought chicken to killing and plucking. Pigeons and baby goats, though, are totally worth the work.

Mosteiros, as most municipal capitals, has free WiFi which just reaches the PCV house. I’m taking advantage of this opportunity to figure out what to do with myself after CV. The only sure thing is going to mainland Africa. When I get back to Michigan, however, a big question mark remains. Should I stay with PC, but in a different country (sorry CV, but I’m leaving in August no matter what)? Should I go back to school? In what field? Should I get a “real job” like my classmates and friends? Doing what? Where? For how long? After two years in CV, where I’d hoped I’d figure it all out, I’m left with more questions than answers. PC has certainly opened doors, but which one to enter? If I enter one, will I come out to find the others closed?

I’ve learned a lot in CV, including two languages, a new culture, got to know a country I didn’t know existed. When I was at our Close of Service Conference a few weeks ago in Cidade Velha on Santiago, I realized the 26 remaining PCVs in my group (lost three to medical issues) constitute the best group of people I’ve had the pleasure to call my colleagues and friends. They’re the people who’ve helped me through what have often been the two unhappiest years of my life. They’ve given up all manner of things to try to help 500,000 people eking out a life on these rocks in the Atlantic.

I have an update on the job front: I accepted a job with Peace Corps Response in Mozambique, about as far as you can get from Cape Verde in Africa (it’s not personal). I’ll work as kind of a business consultant with an American NGO in food security, which is a huge development push there. Mozambique has a lot of potential but was severely set back by decades of war, first against the Portuguese for independence, and later between Mozambicans. I’m looking forward to a new adventure, improving my Portuguese, learning, helping. It’ll be a nine month stint starting in mid-August. Unfortunately I have to go directly from CV, but plan to make it home for Christmas.

Tuesday our masons started work on the first composting toilet. I’m lucky because many PCVs never see their projects get off the ground. Of course I’ve partnered with Luxembourg Development which fully funded the construction, which makes it a lot easier than applying for funds. We continue to battle one of our suppliers to deliver materials so the job can continue. I’m not sure he understands a contract is a legally binding agreement, and not fulfilling it risks a trip to the tribunal. Everyone’s tired of his excuses.

It’s time for the grape harvest, one of my favorite activities. With grapes come mangos, pomegranates, figs, quince, and apples. It officially started Monday, but won’t get going for a few days. For the workers, it can mean 6 am to midnight, or later. Once you’ve picked a grape, you have to de-stem it that day. Harvest time in the winery is sticky, wet, chilly, tiring, and full of bee stings. I love it.

Hopefully I’ll post more frequently this month, as I’ll have regular internet access to keep the project supervisor informed while in Europe. Fika kampion.

Update: I’m in Lisbon. I finished service in Cape Verde, said goodbye to Chã das Caldeiras, and began the journey to Moçambique. What I will do I can only ascertain from a brief document the recruiter sent weeks ago, as the real job description (and paper airline ticket!) didn’t arrive via diplomatic mail. They made me send several pieces of paper via DHL which cost about $100, or more than 25% of my monthly allowance. At least that arrived the next day!

I just got back from a pretty pathetic (it’s 11 pm) night on the town, typical of a PCV coming from one of the most rural sites in Cape Verde to an entirely modern European city in a matter of hours. I asked the receptionist where to get some food. She gave me directions which I half understood and immediately forgot. I wandered near the hotel until I didn’t feel safe anymore. Heading back, I noticed a gigantic mall across the street. Needing a new pair of running shoes, I crossed.

Going from the market in Praia to a modern mall isn’t easy. I went from stepping over chickens, clothes spilled from barrels onto the broken concrete, and lost children with no parents looking for them to a mall with Diesel, LaCoste, and Guess. My little jaunt to check out the mall turned into a several hour zombie walk. I went in and out of stores, amazed they had every size and prices marked. I walked past every restaurant in the food court at least four times, and there were more than ten. I bought a Twister at an ice cream stand. I spoke Portuguese and was understood. What began as a quest for a Portuguese meal led to a fast food pasta place with a plate of generic shrimp/mozzarella/whole wheat penne and a 0.50€ glass of wine (the same price as Coke, what a great country Portugal is).

What got me were the myriad choices. In Cape Verde it’s chicken or fish, Coke or Sprite, cachupa with or without fried egg. I couldn’t make decisions. This happened when I went home for Christmas. This brief layover in Lisbon (I depart for Moçambique tomorrow at 6 pm local time) will necessitate a return. It is truly a beautiful city but I’m not ready.

I just came from two liter (that’s half a gallon) bucket baths, rice and beans twice a day, wearing the same clothes for a week. I never minded that lifestyle but the difference between it and this ultramodern hotel is quite the jolt. I took a hot shower today for the first time since…Christmas? At least the hotel in Praia smelled funny, lost power at least once, and had the chintzy falling apart quality of many new Cape Verdean buildings. Here I have to insert the card into the wall for the lights to work. The television channels work. The receptionist isn’t obviously flirting with me (okay CV’s better in that regard).

It was sad to say goodbye to Chã. I left behind a lot of friends who were like family, one perhaps broken-hearted young lady, two jobs that got going at the end. Right when you hit your stride, you have to leave. It’s a common Peace Corps experience. You finally get the language, figure out how you fit in the culture and your community, begin to thrive. If nothing else, it makes me feel good about a two year period which included some of the unhappiest times of my life. All’s well that ends well, right?

I hope I can pick up in Moçambique where I left off in Cape Verde. It will be more difficult in many ways. True, I speak some Portuguese and understand a lot. I know a lot more about development work. But I’m going from one of the highest ranking African countries on the UN Human Development Index to one of the lowest (7th from the bottom). From a country with an HIV/AIDS rate of no more than 3% to 16% (the PC Welcome Book for Moçambique mentions that some of your coworkers will probably die during your service). People often joke that PC Cape Verde is “Beach Corps” or “Posh Corps.” I would, after two years, strongly disagree. However, no one would say the same about Moçambique.

I must apologize for this post (as for all the previous ones). It was a long time coming, and in the end is rather half-baked. I’ll try to continue from Moçambique if possible. If I’m in a regional capital, no problem. If I’m in a rural area…I’ll talk to you in nine months.

Note: I planned to submit this to the PCV newsletter but for various reasons, among others my laziness, did not. I hope you enjoy and that I explained most of the Kriolu words.

Festa de Nhô São Filipe 2010

São Vicente and São Nicolau celebrate Carnival, Sal fills discotecas with tourists ti mantxi (until it’s time to wake up), and in Praia Gamboa (a yearly festival of music and stabbings) puts the fear in our safety and security officer’s heart. On Fogo, we celebrate Nhô São Filipe, a weeklong extravaganza ending in an escudo-less hangover 1 May.

Among other events, Nhô São Filipe 2010 offered a football tournament; cockfights; horse racing and skills competitions; Miss São Filipe 2010; and myriad musical acts like Face à Face, Kassav, Gilyto, and local zouk star/Chã das Caldeiras primary school director Timas. This year focused more on zouk than funáná, as two consecutive nights of Ferro Gaita in 2009 did not exactly get the crowd on its proverbial feet.

In late April 2010, like 2009, Cape Verdeans returned from Brockton in droves, requiring no less than three Praia to São Filipe TACV flights daily plus as many as Halcyon Air could manage. Dripping in jewelry, wearing the latest American fashions, and freely spending money no doubt earned through backbreaking factory or construction labor, the Foguenses took back their homeland. The festa’s famous excesses attracted a strong group of PCVs this year as well.

Much to everyone’s relief, the PCV visits went off without a single kasubodi (literally “cash or body,” ie give me your money or I stab you). Each day started late, with an audacious tour which visited nearly every cachupa restaurant over the week. Groups of PCVs then split off to nap, endure the searing São Filipe sun to go bidong (55 gal. barrels shipped from the States) shopping, or cool off at the beach. At dusk PCVs would make a valiant effort to organize dinner and evening refreshments. Around eleven the group traveled to the spacious Presidio, São Filipe’s main praça (plaza), for the night’s show. By five or six, with everyone exhausted and the music clearly done, the remaining PCVs trekked to their temporary residences to collapse on questionably clean mattresses, barely noticing the oppressive heat, flies, cockroaches, and mosquitoes.

The rectangular Presidio overlooks the sea, with Brava in the bruma seca (dry wind from the Sahara) obscured distance. In the front, perpendicular to the sea, the musicians performed on a vast stage. A fountain in the back and benches along the ocean side provided tired dancers a plethora of resting places. Booths selling pintxu (grilled pork), grogue (sugarcane death rum), Strela (CV’s national beer), and the odd sumo (juice) lined the other two sides, with a buzof (show-offish) bar in the far corner. The bathrooms, located under said bar, added to the charm, with several inches of urine rendering them unusable, except to people too drunk to care or men willing to urinate down the steps leading to the public health hazards. The police force efficiently readmitted partygoers wishing to relieve themselves in nearby back alleys.

São Filipe, aka Bila, that pretty and tranquil city by the sea features pastel sobrados (traditional Portuguese colonial architecture), picturesque praças, and cobblestone streets which only seem to go uphill. Bila, often proclaimed as Cape Verde’s cleanest city also suffered the highest per capita dengue rates in the country, worse than notoriously unkempt Praia. Only Porto Novo beats Bila in sleepy desertedness. In Bila the population waits for its American visa and the guaranteed riches which will allow it to build a mansion equipped with three meter security fence, ferocious dogs, and Hummer in the driveway.

With its provincial big city attitude and a multitude of young men unwillingly returned from America, in Bila a city losing the smallness which makes Cape Verde pleasant meets the worst of American culture. Only in São Filipe (and Mosteiros) will young men affectionately greet light skinned PCVs with the N word and espouse their loyalty to the Bloods, all in glorious Boston-accented English. On the flip side, after grogue binges and missteps with pikenas (girls…not quite girlfriends) they may express the desire to “shoot you in the f#@%ing head.”

One cannot, however, neglect Bila’s charms. The beautiful black sand Fonte de Bila beach attracts scores of youth during the summer, and will do so until the president of the Câmara (municipal government) and the delegado (delegate) of the MADRRM (ministry of agriculture and environment) divert it all for construction and votes. Djarfogo, a local art store and center of culture roasts the island’s best coffee and shows films provoking thoughtful conversation afterwards. Pipi’s Bar serves delicious Senegalese food, lifting up a beautiful culture often derided by locals. KATOBi.net, a liceu (high school) teacher’s website, chronicles local events and news, often in perfect ALUPEC Kriolu which would bring a smile to Lela’s face.

All in all Nhô São Filipe 2010 exceeded expectations. It proved fun and safe for PCVs and Bila itself. Hilario can sleep soundly until April 2011, when even more PCVs will surely venture to Fogo to partake in its most famous event.

Lately things have been all right. The toughest part about this is the loneliness you can feel, even in the company of friends and people who care about you. In terms of work, things have improved. Now that my Kriolu is good enough for substantive conversation, people realize I might be of value. I wrote a proposal for a local youth group which netted over $1000 for a dance. The dance ended poorly, something I feared, and the reason you won’t find my name on the proposal! I learned a lot about project management though.

I’m working with the primary school director/zouk music star on the same proposal I wrote a few months ago. This time, however, the president of the municipal government asked for the proposal to fix the school, instead of a strange American thinking it was a good idea and trying to push it. We’ll see how it goes, but I’m hopeful. It’ll be around $3000 to repair the bathrooms, replace windows/doors/locks, and fix the water tank which will supply the bathroom and kitchen.

The composting toilet project is in full swing. A group of German speaking Italian students from a semiautonomous region on the border with Austria came to work with Cape Verdean high schoolers in agricultural projects. I worked with one Italian (Patrick) and one Cape Verdean on the toilet. Patrick tested for E. coli, prepared grapevines for compost, and suggested improvements for the bathroom design. I translated between the two students. The Italians spoke various levels of school English. While Patrick’s was basic he tried hard and I mostly understood. I tried to teach him American slang which he absorbed enthusiastically. Using the words he knew, we had colorful conversations about “shit” and “piss.”

It turned out the compost didn’t contain E. coli, but the nearby water tank did. This I learned after proving to the Italians I could drink untreated water from said tank without stomach issues. A Portuguese NGO nurse said the majority of stool samples from Chã test positive for E. coli, but a benign type.

It’s amazing how strong one’s stomach becomes over 20 odd months. I love the communal way we sometimes eat, with a plate and a few spoons or one water glass for a room full of people. I gladly accept the resulting colds. I eat dinner with one family often. I give English class from 5:30-7, and then go to their house for dinner. The father, Fatinho’s favorite dish is “skaldadu ku leite,” which is a bit like Moroccan couscous with fresh goat milk. Sometimes they put coffee with heaps of sugar over it as well. We mostly eat rice and beans though, with the odd fried fish, squash, or raw manioc.

I love going there at night, with anywhere from three to ten people crowded into the dark cinder block kitchen. A lone candle barely illuminates our faces. Some people squeeze onto a narrow bench, others sit on sacks of rice, logs, powdered milk cans, with kids on the floor. Normally the dog is there, and if there’s fish, we spit the bones on the floor for him to devour. Dogs in CV survive on bones and rice. If someone’s radio has batteries, we listen to Radio Criolo FM. If Fatinho’s there, sometimes we dance. Otherwise we joke and “konta parti” (tell our part, or story). Aside from his kids, others from surrounding houses often eat there, as well as cousins and younger men without women. Recently a woman came with her kids, shaken up after her man hit her. It’s a kind of wild, overpopulated oasis where everyone’s welcome.

Fatinho needs an explanation. At about 45, he has 46 children with multiple women. He’s incredibly charismatic and liked by just about everyone. He treats his family and children remarkably well, with several in high school in São Filipe (uncommon in Chã) and one at the University of Cape Verde in Praia. Each woman has a house in the compound, and they get along well. It’s common for men to have several women, but not this openly. Somehow he makes it work, though. On the other hand, it’s ridiculously irresponsible to have so many kids. I have no idea where they get the money to survive. Some of kids work at the winery; Fatinho is a mason; one of his women helps with his work; they have land where they grow grapes, beans, tomatoes, squash; and they raise pigs, goats, cows, and chickens.

I’m not sure there’s continuity to this blog, but I’m going to cut myself off here. Thanks for reading. Fika dretu!

My last blog was written in transit from Fogo to São Nicolau. Now vacation is over and I’m back on the Island of Fire. Carnival was, in a word, awesome. One of the best things I’ve ever done. As advertised, São Nic was “terra terra,” the people incredibly welcoming, the island ridiculously safe and beautiful, absolutely worth the time and money.

A group of male PCVs, including me, joined one of the two groups, Copa Cabana, and danced in the parade. Local tailors made shiny black costumes decorated with brilliant silver fringe and buttons, flashy silver breastplates and wrist guards, and intricate and heavy crowns measuring half a meter wide and almost as tall. To add to the ridiculousness we let fellow PCVs go wild with glitter and makeup, as if we wouldn’t stand out enough with our rather lighter skin, shaggy hair, and questionable though provocative dance skills.

It took several hours of dancing to travel less than a mile through the streets into the main square, where the subgroups of Copa Cabana and Strela (Star) would show off their moves to the crowd, with bands playing from floats furiously playing the repetitive though catchy songs.

As the floats meandered through the narrow cobbled streets of Ribeira Brava, riders with poles would carefully raise drooping power lines over the floats and dancers. Like a marathon, Cape Verdean style, spectators would rush to the dancers with bottles of grog or punch (grog mixed with sugarcane honey and lemon) and shot glasses, to “quench” the dancers’ thirst and give energy for the long night ahead. Once every group reached the square all hell broke loose with insane dancing, jumping up and down, yelling.

There were three parades over four days. I made the last two. For the final parade we started at 5:30pm as the sun dipped below the mountains. It took at least four hours to reach the square. The feeling of exhilaration was like when the Michigan track team won outdoor Big 10s in 2008, but over a matter of hours instead of minutes. More and more dancers and spectators jammed the square, with blinding camera flashes, blaring music, and a healthy dose of dirty dancing.

When the square finally cleared, we devoured plates of rice and vegetables and headed to the PCV house to change. After 1am we arrived at Copa Cabana’s discoteca, the dance floor packed. It wasn’t until 6am that I exhaustedly collapsed into a dreamless sleep at the house.

Over the next few days I explored São Nicolau with other PCVs. Before the last parade, I’d climbed Mt. Gordo, Cape Verde’s second highest peak, hiking an hour from Cachaço to Ribeira Brava afterwards. Seeing the island’s beauty, the PCVs’ jobs, the subtle ways it’s more developed than Fogo, the way of life, definitely aroused jealousy. In my invitation to serve in Cape Verde, I was to work in either the Santiago natural park or São Nicolau’s. Here I am on Fogo…

After too few days on São Nicolau, I headed to São Vicente, with a layover on Sal. Fortunately, the plane left São Nicolau early and Sal late, so I had the unexpected opportunity to spend a good portion of the day on Sal. I’d never planned to visit, as I don’t care for the ocean (its main attraction), loads of beach tourists, and didn’t necessarily want to see the island that’s been sacrificed on the altar of tourism.

Upon arriving, I called one of two PCVs from Sal, who kindly showed me the island’s main towns of Espargos (where Cape Verdeans live) and Santa Maria (where tourists run wild, prostitution and drugs flourish, and you’re more likely to see Senegalese vendors than Cape Verdeans). In what for me was a very un-Cape Verde experience, we ate gelato and strolled a pier jutting into the perfectly clear Atlantic where it laps at pristine white sand beaches. In the distance tourists took advantage of one of the world’s top windsurfing locations. I saw what the PCVs do at their jobs, with a very advanced municipal government. Though I only had a few hours there, I’m grateful to have seen the island, how my colleagues live, how different one island can be from the ones I know and prefer.

I landed in Mindelo, São Vicente, after dark. Getting into the first taxi, I headed to one of the PCV houses, chatting with the Fogo born driver about the increasing violence in the city. One of my colleagues and I got dinner at a hip Cuban restaurant, then caught a bit of the famous nightlife, where live bands play all night along the boardwalk. Mindelo is said to be the cultural center of Cape Verde, though I prefer Praia’s raw if gritty energy to Mindelo’s European vibe. Over the next few days I saw the city, including the incredible new marina where yachters flaunt their wealth, guarded by a locked gate and police meters from drug addicted street kids.

Next I took the hour boat ride to Santo Antão, the second largest island, known for its spectacular mountains separated by rich valleys bursting with sugarcane and bananas. Water runs in the valleys year round, which blew my mind. I had the opportunity to visit every PCV site, often hiking several hours to reach them. The most incredible hikes went from Ponto do Sol to Cruzinha, where we saw whales jumping off the coast and from Chã de Igreja over an impossibly tall mountain to Ribeira Grande, passing through Coculi. The PCVs mercifully put me up, took me on hikes, sampled the island’s best cachupa in various towns, and searched for pontxe de bolacha.

In Coculi, one of my favorite encounters occurred. My hiking buddy informed me that Coculi has the Calú e Angela (the best supermarkets in Cape Verde, like the third best minimarket in Mason, MI) of Santo Antão. (Supermarket hopping is one of my favorite activities, as Peace Corps trainees discovered in August when they frequently saw me wandering Assomada’s Calú e Angela with no intention of buying anything, because the selection compared to Fogo makes my head explode. Granola? Brown sugar? Anti-cavity mouthwash? BOOM!).

After exiting with a package of cookies labeled in an unidentified language, a man furtively motioned for me to come to him as he lurked around the corner of the building. Assuming he was a drug dealer, I nonetheless approached. In Santo Antão Kriolu, he tersely whispered, “I have books. Romance novels. In English. Are you interested?” I left more puzzled than if he’d asked if I was interested in some excellent crack-cocaine, but pleased he’d identified me as an avid reader.

The last night, in Porto Novo, was…memorable. After getting very excited to experience the Friday nightlife in the island’s biggest town, we made for Cave, the discoteca. The bouncer discouraged our first entry attempt, saying it wasn’t worth the cover ($1.20). Eventually we overcame his protests, and immediately regretted it (in retrospect, the memory is well worth it). Inside were approximately three prostitutes; a slightly larger group of their clients; and several men drunkenly or highly dancing alone, including a rather large one with a propensity to intimidate us with his moves and referred to by a hanger-on in English as “very bad.”

The following day I hopped the early ferry, slept a bit in the PCV house in Mindelo, and flew to Praia, where I stayed a comical night before traveling to Fogo. There I slept in São Filipe, and that Monday, finally returned to Chã das Caldeiras, where some people speculated I had returned to America without saying goodbye.

More to come…sometime. If I ever have internet access…

I’m writing from São Filipe, in transit from Fogo to São Nicolau for Carnival (Mardi Gras). It’ll be interesting to see São Nic, one of two islands PC told me I’d go to, that or Santiago. Fogo? Its Carnival is the second biggest in CV, behind São Vicente’s. São Nic’s is said to be more terra terra, or uniquely Cape Verdean. I’d love to see Guinea-Bissau’s, but that’ll have to wait for another year.

It feels odd to, after basically just arriving from America, take another vacation. Us Americans aren’t used to 24 vacation days a year, at which our European friends scoff. I wonder why they have a higher quality of life? Shouldn’t all that dirty awful miserable socialism make them unhappy? Anyway, Christmas and Carnival only come once a year, however, and one of PC’s intentions is for volunteers to get to know the surrounding area.

For non-island PCVs that involves crossing borders, but for us, it’s visiting other islands. I would prefer the former, but that geography which unfortunately makes economic development very difficult, gives rise to more cultural diversity than similarly sized non-island nations. It makes CV an interesting tourist destination, but the interisland transport isn’t up to snuff.

Running tends to get ideas flowing. On a recent run I was thinking about the typically American thought that the market solves all problems. This is a big argument against raising any tax in Michigan, my state. God forbid we put a minimal tax on bottled water, which destroys our environment in several ways (plastic bottles are petroleum products, for example), is often no healthier or worse than tap water, and is certainly more expensive. We don’t need to fund firefighters, the market will provide them. “Hi, we’ve come to save your house. We’ll need an advance of $10,000 please. You don’t have it? That’s too bad. It looks like it was a nice house.”

The developing world is a good place to see the market in action, where the state is often weak and underfunded. The developing world does produce myriad innovations which come about despite, or due to, the constrained environment. That said, no one would hail as great market successes developing world education, healthcare, and transport. An economist might argue that those systems in existence in the developing world serve consumers’ needs as well as possible given the lack of money.

When I was in the hospital in Ghana, I went to the best facility in Accra, the capital. I paid about $200 for three days, a trifle for me but an impossible sum for all the people who suffered in the public clinics and hospitals for lack of money. The market solution for an American visitor is great, but for most of the 18-20 million Ghanaians, it effectively doesn’t exist.

You can compare CV which has a relatively strong state, to a plethora of W. African neighbors which don’t. Here public transport (often private cars with a license to carry passengers) is pretty well regulated. You need insurance, up-to-date maintenance, license, etc. Transport’s not great, but it’s not the race to the bottom you see in other countries, where cars are death boxes on wheels, held together with duct tape and wire, certainly have no pollution controls, and are packed even fuller with people, animals, and baggage.

On another run, I thought about international aid. Many argue there’s little to show for the money spent. Jeffrey Sachs, in The End of Poverty agrees there’s little to show, but counters it’s because the developed world has spent almost nothing. Take another look at CV. It’s one of the great African examples in governance, literacy, health, and other indicators. Then check out statistics the Economist compiled for 2009. CV is the second largest recipient, per capita, of development aid, dwarfing most countries.

Does it get that money because it’s well-run, or is it well-run because of the money? Without a doubt it’s both, but imagine what it could be like if the developed world truly tried to help those developing countries willing to make an honest effort, of which there are many. We could see a bevy of African (or Asian or Central/South American) success stories instead of a handful. As Sachs noted, we’ve promised the money, but with only a few exceptions (Sweden, Luxemburg, among others), have lied. The US promised around 0.7% of our GNP, but as of the book’s printing it stood at less than 0.2%.

On another run I approached a dog on a dirt track connecting my small village to a tiny conglomeration of houses in a lava field dotted with agricultural plots. In the US perhaps I might’ve wondered who owned the dog, thought about petting it, noted its breed, etc. Here, I thought of two things: where’s the nearest rock to throw if it tries to bite, and that I might have to kill it. Fortunately it was more scared than me, and ran.

After 18 months I’ve grown much more confident with dogs and aware of the signs they make. Another dog recently growled at me on the same road. I made a loud psst sound, pretended to throw a rock, and after jogging by unmolested, tossed one in its vicinity for good measure. Like bathing with half a gallon of water or learning to love plain rice with ketchup, dealing with strays is another skill I’ve picked up in the developing world.

As always, thanks for reading. Most of the economic arguments are half-baked. So was Econ. 102. Clearly I made no attempt at paragraph transitions. Sorry Mr. Soule. Happy Carnival!

I’m writing from Mosteiros, Fogo’s second largest community. Apparently it’ll gain city status before long. When I came to CV, there existed five cities: Praia, São Filipe, Porto Novo, Mindelo, and Assomada. Pedro Badejo on Santiago will soon join their ranks, if not already. Jonny and I are planning an accounting class, which we’ll give in February. It’ll complement an entrepreneurism class he gave to prospective business owners over a few months ending in November.

I came to São Filipe from Chã on Saturday morning in the back of a truck filled with apples, pigeon peas, several Chã residents, and a goat. We went to a football (soccer) game, in which one of São Filipe’s teams, Académica, beat Mosteiros’ Cutelinho in a match that went to overtime. We baked in the sun snacking on raw peanuts and downing freshquinhas, little plastic bags filled with frozen juice, in this case tamarind. We rested awhile, then went to a going away party for two nurses from the Portuguese NGO Assistência Medical Internacional, which is active on Fogo. Finally we headed up to everyone’s favorite São Filipe discoteca, Faixa de Terra (Piece of Land).

Today we left São Filipe at 10:45 am, and started the walk to Mosteiros. As it’s about 25 miles away, we hoped to panha un boleia (hitch a ride). Shortly after leaving the São Filipe city limits, we hailed an empty work truck heading in the right direction. As luck would have it, it was headed to Mosteiros, so we jumped in the expansive bed, normally filled with Fogo’s black sand, used in construction when mixed with cement. We got to Mosteiros very quickly, and importantly for PCVs, without spending a single escudo.

Sitting in the sandy bed, flying through villages, watching the rough sea pound the cliffs, I thought of Fogo’s beautiful black sand beaches which are legally stolen to build concrete block buildings. Near Ribeira de Barca, on Santiago, what was once a similarly beautiful black sand beach has been reduced to a rocky strip of land where few swim anymore. However, each day locals wade into the surf with buckets, dive to the bottom, fill the containers, and struggle back to shore with whatever sand they glean from the sea floor. When São Filipe’s beaches Fonte de Vila and Praia da Nossa Senhora disappear over the next few years, no one can say they didn’t see it coming.

Up in Chã I’ve been working mostly at the winery. I enjoy working there, which can mean anything from helping with bottling to having excellent conversations about business-related things like pricing and the IVA (value added tax). Two relatively unpleasant things occurred there recently, but nothing to dissuade me from coming back.

We bottled the 2009 red one day, a high quality and very popular product. The winery can’t produce enough of it. I took my turn at the corker, which unlike in a more mechanized winery, involves manually loading a cork and depressing a long lever with both arms to force the cork into the bottle. Sometimes the bottles have hairline cracks in them, missed by the factory, the people who wash them at the winery, the person filling them, and finally the corker. One such bottle made it to me. I put it in the machine, slammed down the lever, and the top half of the bottle essentially exploded, covering my leg and several workers with red wine. Fortunately no one was cut by the splintered glass. Even a Cape Verdean woman probably can’t get half a liter of red wine out of a pair of jeans, let alone a comparatively lazy American.

The next day, wearing a clean pair of pants, I came back. Having finished bottling the red the previous day, white wine bottling continued. Around 10 am two workers came with a cabrito (baby goat), which clearly indicated a delicious lunch. Cabritos are very cute. You can play with them like puppies. For Thanksgiving 2008 we made the mistake of getting two cabritos Wednesday, playing with them until Thursday. Anyway, the guys showed up with the cabrito, and began to search for a slaughterer. “You guys don’t want to kill it?” “No, look how cute it is! We don’t want to kill it.” Eventually I volunteered to do the deed. I’ll spare the details, only noting that the formerly clean pants got blood on them, and that lunch indeed was delicious.

Happy New Year to all. This is my first blog for 2010. I’m writing Sunday Jan10. I left Michigan the 4th, to Baltimore, then Boston. At 2:30 am on the 5th the reliably unstressed TACV flight took off for Praia, Cape Verde, a mere four hours fashionably late. Seven hours later, we arrived in one of West Africa’s fastest growing cities, currently about the size of Lansing. It seems bigger than it is, though I can’t imagine what Dakar will be like. I suppose like Accra, but crazier.

An unexpected layover kept me, but not my checked luggage, in Praia that evening. This actually worked well as I got a checkup with our PC doctor and antibiotics for a sinus infection. On the 6th only 30 minutes behind schedule, which for TACV is right on time, if not early, we left Praia for São Filipe, Fogo, at 10:30. We touched down masterfully a half hour later.

A fellow PCV and her friend happened to be on the same flight for a Fogo vacation, so I invited them to stay with me in my spacious 225 sq ft studio apartment/concrete box in Chã das Caldeiras. First, however, I had to liberate my bag.

After inquiring in the airport, a helpful though misinformed young woman directed me to the port (for boats) on the extreme other end of São Filipe, where she believed the baggage from the previous night had been sent to customs. We hopped in the van of a friend, speeding through the quaint and pretty coastal town, allegedly the cleanest in Cape Verde, officially the hardest hit (by percentage) by the 2009 dengue fever epidemic, and athletically the volleyball champion of the archipelago.

We pulled into the rather fishy, rough-and-tumble port (what port isn’t?), my Cape Verdean driver/friend/protector from bureaucracy leading the way. The helpful policeman directed us to the airport, to where a hired van had just left from the port, to gather last night’s luggage. We could intercept my bag if we hurried.

Arriving at the airport just in time, I handed another policeman my ticket stub, pointing out the fabulous purple bag, and went on my way. Almost. Back into the van, back to the port, where the customs official had to inspect the bag. Funny, none of that in Praia the previous day. The young man opened my bag, lifted a t-shirt, asking if there was anything else. Absolutely not, sir. Okay, you can go. We grabbed some freshly fried fish, and sped off to catch the van to Chã, but 2-3 hours or 37 km away.

In my first week back I’ve eased into life in the crater. The other PCV, her friend, and I climbed the volcano. I’ve been asked to make sure our volunteers stay safe on the explosive mountain, which entails scrambling to the top from time to time, in total 15 times I believe. I gave them a winery tour and tasting, we caught live Fogo music, Atalia Baixo, and in general enjoyed ourselves.

They left, and I resumed work at the winery. Saturday I helped labeling the new pomegranate liqueur and gave two tours, one to a group of Bridgeport State teaching students and the other to a knowledgeable Austrian couple. Both purchased myriad bottles of the pomegranate liqueur, which is sure to sell out rapidly.

It’s been all right coming back. In general when I leave the island, I don’t relish returning, however. I think my ambivalent attitude towards my time in Cape Verde threw a lot of people off in the US. When you see those billboards with the smiling American surrounded by adorable African kids, you subconsciously imagine Peace Corps as 27 months of bliss. Sometimes it’s great, undoubtedly. I’m lucky to live at a highly coveted site where I have great friends and cool activities. I live at the foot of an active volcano, which is awesome. They say Peace Corps gives you the highest highs and the lowest lows. I’ve had the lowest lows, to be sure.

Going home, it was good to hear from PCVs and their families and friends that our myriad frustrations in CV are shared regardless of country. Good in a way, but bad in the universality of the complaints. On returning, more than one CV PCV said, to paraphrase, “I respect that you came back. If I went home, I don’t think I would’ve returned.” Back in MI, though, it was nice to see the benefits one accrues from volunteering.

While my group perceives it has missed a lot in these tumultuous 16 months, aside from a crippling economic crisis that sadly made America seem worse than I left it, and a plethora of unimportant pop culture highlights (except for Jersey Shore, right Matt?), not much has changed. My friends have new jobs, grad programs, significant others, and locations, but at heart the months and miles haven’t changed much between us.

Sure I now feel fine on the two showers per week plan, can kill a chicken, speak two new languages, genuinely like kids (maybe not bratty American kids who I can’t “straighten out” without legal problems), and can subsist on rice and beans thrice daily for days or weeks. Everyone noticed my PC version of the thousand mile stare, my comical indecisiveness at Jersey Giant deli or the Meridian Mall food court, and the tendency to slip into Kriolu. But aside from those minor quirks all was basically the same.

I think going through hard culture shock after Ghana saved me a bit this time. Maybe coming back finally after finishing in CV will be different, when vacation mode ends and it’s back to the hard reality of America. I assure every Cape Verdean who wants a visa that the US is a brutal place, especially for a person of color with a sixth grade education who knows four phrases in English, three of them unprintable.

For once I have more to write, but as usual my battery’s almost done. Perhaps I’ll get around to finishing up in another couple of weeks. Thanks.

Once again it’s been awhile. It’s mostly because I’m enjoying myself at site and don’t leave often. Some of the recent weekends I’ve gone to other sites, but rarely to São Filipe where I have internet access.

It’s turned cold, with frost on Nov. 1. The word in Kriolu for frost is….frost! I’m pretty stupid, and selected the coldest site in CV. Of course like any good Michigander I’m used to cold, but a nice, solid house with a heater is different from a shoddy cement block box with wooden doors and windows which don’t fit too tightly in their frames. This makes my house an attractive site for mice, though I don’t think they found the rat trap and strategically placed poison hospitable.

The temperature drop also brings cold and flu season. I’ve had a cold for about three weeks. I’ve tried every remedy: chicken soup, decongestants, ibuprofen, sleep, exercise, lime tea, oranges, vitamins, at least four cups of coffee daily, the local favorite garlic and orange peel tea, among others. But with the dengue epidemic finally diminishing, I count myself lucky to only have a cold. The fight against dengue, though, has been inspiring. An elderly Cape Verdean told me she hadn’t seen the populace working together since independence, when the country built itself from scratch, sweat, blood, and suffering.

Any illness pretty much hits everyone. There doesn’t seem to be much knowledge of how illness is transmitted. The society is more communal than what I knew in the United States of Brockton. I really like that, though. At a party there might be one cup of water for ten people. At the winery recently, one of the guys reheated a plate of rice and beans, tossed a few spoons in, and we shared. It’s a public health nightmare, but nice at the same time.

I enjoy being basically the only Westerner, aside from the tourists. The nearest PCV is a three hour + hike to Mosteiros. It’s easy to use English-speakers as a crutch, but now I speak Kriolu about 95% of the time. I’m picking up a lot of “terra terra” Kriolu, old school. Most people in Chã das Caldeiras know to dumb it down for me, but still after 16 months, I learn things every day. Portuguese is coming along, and I’ve half-heartedly started studying French.

I know I’ve been in CV too long though. I think of Praia as the big city (pop. 150,000), with every imaginable resource, activity, possibility. Calú e Angela is the greatest grocery store in the world. Moura bus company is the most efficient and well-run public transport outfit around. Cockpit is the coolest discoteca ever. Refried cachupa is the greatest breakfast food invented.

Sometimes, when I try to conjure memories of America, I only catch fleeting glances. An image appears in my head, and disappears like the dusts of the bruma seca. I attempt to remember Meijer, or snow falling on Bramble, or a paved four lane highway, and I seem to see them in my peripheral vision, but trying to focus, they vanish.

I suppose if you’re still reading, you’d like to know what I’ve been doing. When the dengue epidemic hit, I started working with the “Sanitation Agents” from our village health post. We measured water tanks in Cabeça Fundão and Chã (anywhere from 1,000 to 240,000 L), and treated them with either a larvacide, “abate,” for drinking water tanks, or with petrol for unused tanks or ones for livestock. We did a sensitization campaign, explaining the cause, symptoms, and treatment of dengue. Due to the temperature, Chã didn’t have too many cases. Praia and São Filipe suffered the most.

I’ve been working on another sensitization campaign, for a composting toilet the water utility built for a local family. Incidentally, it’s a polygamist family with an incredibly charismatic father, four women, and 46 kids. I really like the family though it poses several contradictions. The father, by any local measurement, is a great dad. The kids are fed, clothed, educated, and loved. The women aren’t beaten and the father doesn’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. Everyone appears happy. On the other hand, you want to criticize the irresponsibility of so many children. It could become somewhat of a contest. If you already have 46, why not go for 50?

Many, many men have kids with multiple women in CV, often ignoring them or only offering minimal support. Driving to Chã with some PCVs a few weeks ago, our driver sheepishly admitted having 20 kids, and couldn’t seem to remember how many houses (and thus families) he had.

In the end, the proposal I wrote for the primary school won’t be used. The local association, along with a Danish NGO, developed their own proposal which admittedly is better. It’s not important, though, as long as the school gets the needed repairs. There are certainly opportunities for other projects, with myriad donors just waiting for good proposals.

Anyway, that’s a lot of writing, so I’ll stop here. Obrigado.

I had a pretty solid weekend in Mosteiros. Several of us PCVs got together more or less informally. I hiked down from Chã. The weekend pretty much epitomized the “Beach Corps” reputation of Cape Verde. As an aside, an RPCV who visited last week convincingly argued against the “Cape Verde isn’t real PC” line, saying that while in many mainland countries surviving for two years is an accomplishment, in Cape Verde, since living’s not too difficult we’re expected to do relatively serious work.

So anyway, we swam, ate delicious lobsters which a neighbor gave us, and in general relaxed. It was pretty much the perfect weekend. Our opinion of Mosteiros definitely improved.

In São Filipe on Friday, standing outside of the Shell, I witnessed a strange occurrence. To my left I heard a car horn blaring, more than normal. A newish, dark blue Audi or Volkswagen SUV came racing down the street. I noticed the driver’s side window was shattered, and disturbingly, the driver’s left arm covered in blood. The story is everywhere now, and it seems pretty clear it was a conflict between rivals in the drug trade. There were reports of several arrests, and last night on the road we saw a police officer with an AK-47 pulling over cars, which may or may not have been related.

Anyway, I guess I don’t really have much to say other than that. Hmmm. Yep.

The rainy season (August to October-ish) is in full force. For me it’s not enjoyable, with thousands of flies in the house; everything damp, chilly, molding; not running much, staying in the house. Flies have an affinity for landing on one’s face, particularly the lips. Their cold, wet bodies scampering along every exposed centimeter of flesh never fails to disgust and annoy. Thankfully when the lights (candles) go out, they ascend to the ceiling and stay until morning.

My house like all others is a concrete box, whose benefits are price and ease/speed of construction. They’re cold in winter (it gets below 0º C, or 32 º F for you Americans and Brits ), leak, don’t hold paint well, take long to dry, and use imported cement and sand stolen from CV’s beaches and volcanoes. Doors and shutters (glass windows are a distinct luxury) are normally wooden, swelling in the rainy season making them difficult to open and close. In the dry season they shrink, making it easy for dust, vermin, bugs, and disreputable people to enter. With all that swelling and shrinking they don’t last long either.

Despite the negatives, the rainy season is essential. Whenever I get sick of the rains, I remind myself of the 100,000+ Cape Verdeans who starved to death during droughts during the World Wars. Consider that CV’s population today of around 500,000. The fantastically terrible colonial masters, the Portuguese, let this mass starvation happen. These famines are sometimes referred to as, “the times we ate dogs.” The international community saved Cape Verde from similar disaster several times after independence.

Every colonial power was dastardly, but Portugal ranks up there with the worst. At least the French and British left infrastructure and decent schools. Portugal left nothing but the misery it cultivated during its rule. There’s much underlying animosity for the Portuguese, who come to work and play. They’re described often as “atrevida,” or “cheeky, bold, insolent.” You see it in the way some visitors behave, how they treat the place and people, looking down on it. I’ve been told Americans are highly attuned to these things: we’re extremely politically correct. I have many Portuguese friends and haven’t experienced mistreatment, though a Cape Verdean acquaintance said of course, because America is better off than Portugal, but it’s different for CV and her people. They look up to America and down on CV, Angola, Guinea-Bissau, and Moçambique.

I’d like to visit Portugal. It’s also often called “atrasado,” or “late.” I admit taking pleasure in an international development book from the 70s describing it as part of the Third World. It’s a country with a proud, but ancient history. Younger Portuguese, born after colonialism, who seem well-educated, modern, and fun, must come to terms with this. The days of Portuguese dominance in exploration, naval power, and colonialism are long gone. The youth understand this, but perhaps don’t know how to move forward. Many seem sheepish or apologetic when taking about the past and present, and unconfident or worried about the future.

It never fails to surprise me of CV’s smallness. The last time I went to Praia, some other PCVs and I went to a discoteca, where we hung out with one of CV’s newest and biggest rap stars. He was a student of one of them at UniCV. It’s no wonder recently when there was a Celine Dion video on someone asked if I knew her and the people in the video. I identify my state, Michigan, as where “that white rapper, Eminem,” is from. “Do you know him? Akon? Chris Brown?” Otherwise Kriolu pronunciation leads people to believe I’m Mexican. This breeds more confusion when I tell how cold it is, how much snow we have. “I thought Mexico was hot?”

Anyway that’s about it. Thanks for reading. Stay dry!

Things are going well in Chã. I enjoyed helping with Pre-Service Training in Assomada, Santiago, but it was nice to get back to site. Our new group of trainees (soon to be PCVs) is incredibly well-educated, motivated, and excited to get started. I too learned from sitting in on sessions, and gained inspiration from them. I have high hopes for them, especially since the new PCVs in Small Enterprise Development have excellent placements, with strong organizations, in positions to use their expertise to help CV.

Every time I leave Santiago I appreciate it more, sometimes feeling pangs of regret for not staying. It’s so big compared to Fogo, with more diversity, a more African cultural vibe, hikes, beaches, a great group of PCVs, so many resources and advantages. Fogo’s got the volcano, but more or less that’s it.

Santiago is nice because you can live in an entirely rural and isolated village, but in an hour or two get to Praia, the “big” city. Living in such a small country as CV can make a city of 150,000 like Praia seem like a bustling metropolis, with every possible resource. Indeed it bustles, but doesn’t stretch far. That makes it nice, though. It’s manageable. When I was in Ghana it took an hour or two to get across smoky, dusty, crowded, 2 million people Accra. I loved every minute of it, though. When in Praia I can walk anywhere I need to go (during the day).

I’m working on several projects. I’m putting my business degree to work helping determine the cost to make grappa/bagaceira, a liquor from fermented and distilled grape skins. Later I may tackle liqueurs (pomegranate, peach, fig) and wines. Getting one relatively complete costing model will make the other products easier. It’s a strange PC experience, working at a winery. Nothing about this experience has been what I expected. But the winery has made an incredible impact on the community, with just about everyone benefitting from increased grape prices, winery jobs, and tourism.

The second project is improving the school, which I wrote about last time. Since I live in the community and my boss in São Filipe, I’m getting estimates, finding people to volunteer, raising awareness, and writing the proposal. He’ll use his contacts and communications to get financing. If all goes well we can get it done before school begins. We’ll focus on making the bathrooms function, shoring up the rainwater catchment tank, paint, and windows/doors, in that order.

Otherwise there are little things. I hope to get materials to give a training on waitressing/hospitality for a local restaurant. I need to get an English class going, hopefully with materials which require no curriculum development by me. When the park builds its jam factory I’ll surely have work, provided it happens in the next year.

Anyway, I’m starting to bore myself, so it must be 10x worse for you. Thanks for reading.

This is my first blog from Chã das Caldeiras (from São Filipe technically…no internet in Chã). I moved a few weeks ago and am very happy. Much more so than in São Filipe, which was, well, terrible. Our second year PCVs are heading off to whatever awaits them, so it’s sad to see them go. On the other hand, I’m excited to meet the new trainees who most likely are currently struggling with Kriolu, illness, and adjusting to Cape Verdean life and culture, especially for those who’ve not traveled to the developing world before. Cancun isn’t the developing work, either…

As I’ve worked on this blog at various times, I’m continuing from the São Filipe airport, where, our national carrier has generously afforded me three extra hours to use my computer, read, be hungry, nap, before leaving for Praia! I’m going to help train the new trainees in things like Kriolu; Português; learning to love Zouk, Funana, Akon, and Chris Brown; how not to get sick anymore; small business skills; PACA; environmental education; and more.

I’m keeping relatively busy, helping at the winery especially. A friend is an enologist who’s teaching me all there is to know about winemaking. It’s interesting, and the winery is a huge benefit to the community. Who knows, maybe after I’ll try to work at Leelanau cellar for a harvest? South Africa’s got wineries too, Mom! Namibia as well. I’m also going to help with accounting, marketing, and determining production costs.

Other than the winery, I’ve spoken with the primary school director on doing a project to improve the school. New paint, functioning bathrooms, windows. Hopefully he’s getting estimates while I’m in Praia. Vamos a ver, né? The water utility is interested in erecting dry, composting toilets, which make perfect sense in Chã because it’s a mile above sea level, doesn’t have readily available aquifers, and pumping water from sea level would be exorbitantly expensive. Water is almost always the most important issue in any decision here.

Cape Verdean kids are required to attend school through 6th grade, which is free. In Chã that’s how far the school goes. Afterwards, they have to go to Cova Figueira, São Filipe, etc. to continue. They need a place to live, school’s not free anymore, and many are pressured to stay at home and farm. Few go, and hardly any graduate high school. Still, a few trickle out and eventually go to university in Praia, Europe, China, or Brazil.

The other day I noticed the professors had posted grades (no confidentiality!) outside the school. I’d observed the 6th grade class once, so I have an idea of the brighter students, the clowns, the quiet ones. I ran into a boy who’s kind of a punk (what 6th grade boy isn’t?), but clearly intelligent, especially in math. I asked if he passed, would he continue 7th grade outside of Chã. “No, my dad doesn’t want to send me.” Yet he ran off, to see if he achieved the necessary 10.5/20. As he dashed away, getting smaller and smaller, I couldn’t help but wonder what’s the use? Whether he got 100% or 0% in the end didn’t matter. Unless he gets a visa, he’s here for good, or gets drafted at 18 and leaves for a year or so. Anyway, he passed.

També n sta djobi pikenas, klaramenti. Ten um ki ta trabadja ku parki sima mi ki n sta tenta di ranja. N atxa ki n ta konsigi go n ka sabi ainda. Podi ser ael é sima kel otu na Txan ki ta fla txeu mintira. Atxa ki no, go. N ten ki da’l fala ora ki n torna bem di praia. Kati kati, poku poku, é ka simé? La na Txan bu ten ki ten un manta bibo bu ntendi?

Lauren said for blogs she sometimes just bullets interesting things. Dave and some of the rest of us spoke about how everyday things here might blow people’s minds in the US. Walking home from the store yesterday I thought about both these things, so here goes. Update: So I didn’t get around to posting this, so I’ve added more stuff that’s strange, interesting, crazy, etc.

• Saw a herd of goats feasting on cardboard and other garbage

• Witnessed a near cow-car collision

• Got scared by the rest of the herd of cows who were crossing the road but hidden from view behind a building

• A man I know who loves Americans stopped me on the street, complaining of the heat though wearing slacks, a suede suit jacket, and a hat, in we’ll say basic English

• Walking down the street I saw a stray dog pawing through a pile of garbage. A young boy snuck up on it, intending to kick or hit it with something. The dog spooked, and ran into the road, in front of a taxi. “Dnnnk.” The dog howled and ran away on three paws, the other held in close to its body, broken or severely injured.

• When the director of a private high school, who lives above us, with his wife, mother-in-law, and three children, heard Jonny and I were moving, he called us upstairs. Not knowing what he wanted, we were rather nervous. But he said he was sad to hear that we’re moving, that he felt safe with us around his children, asked if there was anything he could do, we’re always welcome to stay with them.

• Had to stop my run to allow a goat herd to cross the road

I’m sure there are things I’ve forgotten, but this gives a glimpse into everyday life. Today I’m moving back to Chã das Caldeiras, where I’ll stay until around August 2010. I will continue to blog infrequently and will be difficult to contact. Thanks for reading.

I think the last post raised a few eyebrows. I didn’t mean to generalize, just to say that the woman and the boy really irked me. The vast majority of Cape Verdeans, like any population, are great people. I’ve heard one difference between serving in CV versus other PC posts, is that here people welcome us into their lives and we’re not the outsiders volunteers elsewhere are.

It’s hard for people to see the sacrifice we make as Americans, because in the local context, it’s not a sacrifice at all. For me joining didn’t feel like a sacrifice, and for some it’s even a very intelligent, rational decision. Definitely not for everyone though…It’s very common for Cape Verdeans to leave for Europe or America in search of a better life, while wives, children, parents, and friends stay behind. This population liquidity is evidenced by the fact that there are more Cape Verdeans outside of the country than in it.

We’re supposed to live at the level of the local population, but in reality our stipend makes us solidly upper-middle class. People see us going out for meals, taking vacations to other islands or countries, doing things the average person cannot. During a training in Praia some other PCVs and I spoke to a Cape Verdean familiar with PC. We tried to explain how it’s hard to give up two years, away from home, making much less money than we could in the States, etc. He said he knew how comfortably we live in CV and joked he’d give up his job and join PC, preferably to serve in the US.

One thing that differentiates us, is that we choose to volunteer. It’s not like people here who are forced to leave school to farm, feel there’s no option but to emigrate, or would like to eat at a restaurant but need to buy flip-flops for their kid who’s going to school barefoot. If I wanted, I could quit and be in the US within a week. That’s not possible here.

A point I wanted to make in the previous post is that one negative experience can overshadow several positive ones. I think it’s human nature, not an excuse I’ve created.

Last weekend I was in Chã das Caldeiras talking to a Cape Verdean who’d lived in the States, sharing his views on CV. One funny thing he said was that CV doesn’t have social unrest or anything because people like partying too much. Haha I don’t know, but he said it, not me. He said to remember his name, and next time I’m in his zone, ask for him. He said, “Of course you’d be welcome at my house,” in the same manner you’d say, “Of course goat is delicious.”

A few weeks ago I made the hike to Mosteiros from Chã das Caldeiras. When I got close to Mosteiros I came upon a woman and several of her kids. She had an enormous bundle of firewood balanced on her head and a child under her arm. She mentioned her son studies English and likes to practice with tourists who pass. When we entered Mosteiros she invited me for boiled sweet potatoes and coffee, a popular local snack, to practice with her son. The sacrifice she makes for her son is incredible, bringing strangers into to her home and feeding them, so her son can get better at English and hopefully improve his life.

Her eyes brightly glimmered giving away her relative youth, otherwise masked by dusty work clothes, neglected hair, and leathery skin caused by unending labor just to survive. She lamented that when she was younger she wanted to go to school, but had to leave after fourth grade to work. She bravely climbs that trail daily without regard to herself, with the hope her kids will enjoy the better life she imagined, but couldn’t achieve due to conditions beyond her control.

So that is the average Cape Verdean, not the “Give me” woman or the disrespectful kid. I hope I’ve cleared up that distinction.

Some things have the ability to infuriate me, naturally. A lot depends on the situation, not only the trigger but a hundred other things. My brothers left a few weeks ago; things could only deteriorate. I just returned from an excellent training on Santiago, an island I like more every time I visit, and where I had the opportunity to serve in the natural park but instead decided on Fogo. Each time I leave, I want less and less to board the plane to return to Fogo.

Unfortunately it seems human nature to focus on the bad, not the good. Marketing research shows people who’ve had a negative experience will tell more acquaintances about it than those who’ve enjoyed a positive experience.

As I’ve written, I don’t like living in São Filipe. It’s not what wanted when I joined Peace Corps, and that hasn’t changed since the forced move in January. Walking home Monday after an ATM run, thinking about my abhorrence of this situation, I encountered one of my least favorite things. Two women hanging out on their porch greeted me, so I stopped to say hello, expecting a pleasant, though cursory conversation.

Immediately the older of the two, 65 or 70, held out her hand and said “Da-n dinheiro” (Give me money). Huh? Seriously? The other woman laughed, the other unabashedly thrust out her hand repeating the demand. I don’t know if there’s an uglier motion in the world. Dumbfounded, stunned at the boldness, the lack of pride, the younger woman instructed me to tell the woman I didn’t have any.

The older one said all Americans have money. I should give her some. She wants to go to America because there’s so much easy money. Surely it’d be simple for a woman her age to learn English and rise to the ranks of CEO at an MNC. She’s been to France, twice, which apparently wasn’t good enough. She lives in a nice area of the city and though has probably seen difficult times, those days are gone. Also, apparently she knows better than me what America’s like.

We ended up conversing awhile, aided by a much more pleasant neighbor whose husband is a driver for the ministry. I said I was a volunteer but that didn’t impress her neighbors. When I left I was enraged. I’m not quick on my feet verbally, let alone in a different language. I wish I were. I would’ve had some choice words. If I could do it again I would’ve said:

I do have money. I just came from the ATM. But I’m not going to give you a single escudo (unit of Cape Verdean currency, about a cent), and I never will. Don’t ever ask me for money. I’m a volunteer. You think America is so great, but I decided to trade two years of the good life in America to come to Cape Verde. I left my parents, brothers, family, friends. The average salary for my classmates from business school was $60,000. I don’t make 10% of that. You are lucky. Cape Verde is a middle income country. It is poor but it has a lot going for it, including an open and democratic government, a high standard of living, and peace. I’ve been to the next best country in West Africa, Ghana, and every single day I saw people going hungry. That doesn’t happen here. I can’t imagine Nigeria or Sierra Leone. If giving two years of my life to your country isn’t enough, go to hell.

I wish I had said that. And if she ever asks again, I will. I don’t care if that’s not kosher. I’m not going to pretend that some grandma asking every white person who walks by for money is cute. It’s ugly and shameful.

Yesterday, I found myself walking past the same house, and instinctively began rehearsing the diatribe in my head. Walking the other way was a group of three primary school boys. “Da-n 100 escudos,” (Give me 100 escudos) one of them said. With a quiet but serious intensity I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: “Bai pa merda criança,” (literally, “Go to shit child.”). His buddies let loose an emphatic “Whoaaa,” meaning, “You just got served by a white dude in Kriolu!”

Some might say it was too rough, but I don’t feel an ounce of regret.

My bros just left Cape Verde for America after their whirlwind vacation, which was incredible and which I appreciated more than they’ll ever know. Not seeing family for ten months is difficult. But anyway, silly American miniscule vacations… Our European friends shake their heads in pity, appreciating the +/-1 month they get each year.

I was on http://www.peacecorpswiki.org recently which got me thinking about things we miss or that leave us behind. Serving in Cape Verde, is not, as my brothers found, like disappearing into the deserts of Niger or the forests of one of the former Soviet “Stans,” but it’s different than the States.

A universal loss is our grasp of the English language. In CV volunteers interact more often than at other posts, and many Cape Verdeans speak English, but still words escape us. I’m extremely glad I took the GRE already. When I came, my English was very good and I spoke decent Spanish. Now I speak simple Kriolu, broken Portuguese, no Spanish, and ever deteriorating English.

When the bros arrived I put on a mix of popular discoteca music in São Filipe. Cape Verdean funana, zouk, and rap mingle with Banda Calipso from Brazil; reggae from Bob Marley and Lucky Dube; and what we believed to be the latest Akon and other hip-hop stars.

“Have you heard this song, “Forever,” by Chris Brown? It just hit Cape Verde.”

“Uh actually that’s about eight months old. Haven’t you heard about how he beat up Rihanna?”

It seems the “latest” Akon is about six months old, and probably played out in the US. We still enthusiastically dance to it in the discos, not least because for once we understand the words. The tables are turned on our Cape Verdean partners.

Another phenomenon is Twitter. All these headlines we’ve seen during our precious internet time about what Oprah wrote or that Senator Whoever Twittered during some speech. What does it mean? Why is it so popular? And after having it explained multiple times by an IT volunteer and my bros: Why does anyone waste their time with this crap?

I excitedly pointed out the large canister of cinnamon I found in a shop in Mosteiros, or the abundance of meats in Praia supermarkets, to Chris’ rolled eyes. Buying spices in bulk, as opposed to in overpriced packets containing several tablespoons at best, isn’t tantalizing? It’s bad enough experiencing culture shock going from Fogo to Santiago. What’ll it be like going to Meijer or Kroger in the US for the first time?

I remember the first supermarket I entered after a month in Ghana. It was in Onekama in northern Michigan, on the shores of Portage Lake and across the street from the once glorious but apparently now shuttered Tuttens bar. Mary, Shanka, Ammar, Fairgrieve, Hobey, and Jamie (Sorry if I’ve omitted someone) practically had to drag me from the “vast” (the Onekama IGA is not Super Wal-Mart) selection of meats, breads, canned goods. Of course, no one sold skewers of grasscutter, ie overgrown rodent, or guinea fowl, by the road, to every American’s detriment.

I’ve been in Cape Verde ten months, and it’s amazing how much we’ve missed. What’ll it be like in fall 2010 when I return? For me at least, it’s more humorous than devastating. It’s the time not spent with family and friends that hurts. But I know when I step into the terminal at Lansing’s Capital City Airport after this adventure, while I will still be unfashionable, behind the times on music and IT, and shocked by the selection at the airport café, my family will be there and we’ll pick up like we’d only been apart a matter of minutes, not years.

I’ve been extremely remiss. Occasionally I write snippets or paragraphs, so I’ll string a few of them together.

It was my buddy’s birthday recently, so naturally I baked a cake. I left it in the oven overnight due to a full refrigerator and to protect it from flies. In any case, when I pulled it out the next day to frost, I found it swarming with ants.

Okay, so in the US this is obvious: throw the cake away and bake a new one. Here, not so clear. You can’t waste a whole freaking cake. That’s absurd. I didn’t have more flour and there was no place open to buy more. I didn’t have time to bake another.

I thought back to times I’d eaten cookies with ants on them or consumed juice hosting an ant pool party. Insects are great protein sources too! I blew off as many of the ants as I could, and put the cake in the freezer for awhile to kill the rest of the little moochers. Then a nice layer of white frosting covered any evidence.

To seal the deal, we ate it outside by candlelight with no chance of spotting corpses. And I’m happy to say, no one got sick and everyone said it was good. Yes!

I was thinking about ways in which I’ve changed here in outlook or mentality. Definitely patience grows living in a developing country.

The importance of family is greater than the US. In the States, the bond within immediate family members is strong, but here it extends farther. “Family” encompasses more people, 2nd, 3rd cousins. The definitions are different. There are no half siblings. Men having children with multiple women is common, and all are considered full brothers and sisters. Family trees are…interesting.

We live on the bottom apartment of a two story. The other night the kids upstairs were particularly loud and annoying, and finally they got what was coming to them. Instead of being horrified as we might have been in the US, we smiled at one another knowingly, acknowledging that it was about time.

Okay here we go Beau: Living more intimately with animals makes me less against hunting. Coming from Michigan and knowing plenty of hunters, I never had a problem with it. It’s the guns that bother me (An AK47 or a semi-auto Glock for hunting? To protect yourself from the queen of England? If as an American you have the right to bear arms, why not bear a 1700s black powder rifle or pistol like our forefathers? Who needs an M-16?). But anyway, I never cared to hunt because I didn’t think I could kill an animal. After living here, seeing animals killed, killing a few, I might just give it a go in the States. If you’re going to eat meat, you might as well be willing to kill it yourself.

I just found out I’m returning during the summer to the village from which I moved. I’m incredibly excited to go back to the strange little place I learned to love, though it could explode at any time! Just kidding, eruptions are announced by tremors giving enough time to escape.

The other night I went to a discoteca with some PCVs. Two female colleagues and I left early as the club was empty and it was getting late. Sitting on my front step, we heard crying from the nearby park. Then a cartoonishly loud “smack,” so overdone and followed by a strange guttural noise we assumed a few kids were playing. Moments later a teenage girl ran out from the park, sat down against a wall, and sobbed, head in hands. One of the PCVs went to talk to her, to make sure she was all right. The perfect gentleman of a boyfriend stalked over, arguing with them. From the step we couldn’t hear everything, but we did catch, “When we get home I’m going to beat you. It’s my right.” After more negotiating, begging, imploring by the PCV, the guy grabbed the girl by the hand, pulled her to her feet. He dragging her, she resisting, but ultimately following, they went off into the night.

It was disgusting. I wish I had gone over and said something. As right as my fellow PCV was in her arguments against the girl leaving just to get beaten by the guy who’ll certainly not face repercussions, he wasn’t going to listen to her. Maybe he would’ve listened to another guy. Maybe he would’ve felt embarrassed for a fleeting moment. Maybe not. At least I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering “What if?”

I’ll try to follow up with a what-I-do-everyday blog before long. Thanks for your patience. By local standards, I’m right on time.

When I joined Peace Corps I really wanted to serve in a rural African village where I thought perhaps I could do some good. Yesterday instead I found myself playing volleyball with friends in the island’s biggest city, where I live, in a facility as nice or nicer than in any American town.

Today I am translating a 26 page trail guide from Portuguese to English which I’m sure will make an immense impact on the lives of all Cape Verdeans and probably solve world poverty. You’re welcome.

Oh it seems one of my colleagues needs to use the Ethernet cable. How I have to suffer for the good of development. Imagine, not having internet whenever I want it. Until next time...

My birthday was March 3rd, the big 2-3, putting me one year closer to renting a car in the US, senior discounts, and social security (just kidding, my generation won’t get that!).

I thought I’d lie low, not tell anyone who didn’t know, spend time with some PCVs. All PCVs knew because our newsletter announces birthdays. Also, I’m friends with a few people here on Facebook, who astutely noticed the impending anniversary.

I woke, made breakfast, went to work, the normal routine. I got home and my parents called, singing “Happy Birthday” according to family tradition. We talked until my Cape Verdean buddies came to practice English. After the lesson my grandparents called crooning “Happy Birthday” as well. Then we ran, I went home and showered, and went to dinner with some PCVs.

We had the best Chinese food on Fogo: grilled pork ribs and chicken, with fried rice. It’s too bad the multitude of Chinese people on the island don’t open an authentic restaurant. Nonetheless it was good and I’ll go again.

We stalled at the restaurant, watching Brazilian reality TV (“Wife Swap,” in Rio). Jonny fielded several phone calls, disappearing from time-to-time. I received well-wishes from the two awesome young women who lived in the same training village as me. We became intimate friends packed into the beds of pickup trucks shuttling our fellow villagers, livestock, and sacks of produce back and forth to Assomada, airing our concerns, frustrations, highs, lows, with uninhibited honesty. It approached 9:30, when I thought a few friends might stop by, so I was antsy to get back. No one else seemed hurried.

Finally we got to the house, Jonny searched his pockets, and said, “Oh I forgot my key,” so I opened the door. I looked left and thought I saw something strange on the futon but it was dark so I wasn’t sure.

I hit the light. “SURPRESA!!!” (surprise). On the table a huge, beautiful cake, and all of our close friends jammed into the diminutive living room: the Portuguese volunteer nurses, our German pals working in tourism and wine-making, our Luxemburger friend overhauling the water utility, my running partners/English students/friends, our Cape Verdean buddy (Joãozinho) who teaches Tae-Bo and has been a good friend to Peace Corps on Fogo for years, and a few others. I was astonished. They broke into “Happy Birthday” in Portuguese, then English, as I stood awed, like a deer in the headlights.

I shuffled towards the kitchen, dazed, to get extra plates and silverware, when my phone rang once again. Far too many digits appeared on the caller ID for a Cape Verdean number (no area codes here), and to my utter delight some of my best friends from the US, Shanka, Jamie, and Ammar called. Still floored from the surprise, it was nonetheless awesome to speak to them. More icing on the cake.

Every year there’s that nagging possibility in the back of my head, “If I open this door is there a surprise waiting?” But never did I expect it here, so far from home. It turns out the scheming Portuguese nurses who’ve become my good friends organized it. This mammoth effort, as their term ends and they return to Portugal the 5th, aided by Joãozinho and Jonny. I’m not an emotional person but I am, extremely touched, grateful, and lucky to be surrounded by such incredible people, even if I lack the words to express those feelings.

So despite the unremarkable, anticlimactic nature of the 23rd birthday, I count this as one of, if not the, best birthdays ever. A million miles from home, on a mysterious volcanic island rising from the unforgiving Atlantic, I continue to live a charmed and undeserved life. Thank you everyone. It means more than you know.

It’s good to talk how people are alike and we’re a common humanity. I believe it too, though I only know five countries (plus Amsterdam’s airport. I’m told this doesn’t count. It was nice and I think I’ll like Europe immensely). It’s probably more interesting to you intrepid readers, who bravely slog through my awkward and infrequent posts, to hear about differences. I’ll say, in my day-to-day life, what’s different from the US and put approximate prices, to show how expensive it is. Things are often as pricey as the US, yet per capita GDP in CV is less than $1,500/year, and much less for average farmers. Fogo and Santo Antão are the poorest islands.

I wake at 6:45, faintly hearing roosters. Trucks rumble by filled with pilfered sand from the beaches or volcano. I get water from the filter, bleach it, and drink. I put CV coffee ($2.50/250g) in a pot and mix in 1.5 mugs of water. I light the gas stove with a Bic, singeing my hand. The oven is scarier. It’s a mini explosion. On another burner I fry an egg ($0.25). A common misconception is the need to refrigerate eggs. False. I’ve never refrigerated here, and I’ve only been to the hospital twice. Maybe I have parasites or amoebas but raw cookie dough is worth it. Fresh cow’s milk is not. No thank you. But it’s true, some doctor somewhere said eggs are fine at room temp. While coffee and egg cook, I peel a Fogo orange ($0.25), pale yellow, bruised, dirty, sour-ish, full of seeds. They don’t taste bad, and I like to support Fogo. Coffee boils a few minutes, and then I turn it off and let the grounds settle. I slowly pour into a mug, trying to keep the sludge in the pot.

After breakfast I walk to the office, passing women with big bowls balanced beautifully (alliteration!) on their heads, full of produce, fish, or clothes. Men idle near Hotel Xaguate with spear guns and other fishing implements. Kids going to morning session (to maximize existing infrastructure and teachers, school is ½ day) walk by, some in pressed school shirts, knockoff Diesel jeans, and Nike Air Force 1s, others in grubby t-shirts and holey flip-flops, or no footwear at all. Goats graze the ribeiras (valleys) or wander the streets, eating delicious delicious trash.

At the mint green office trimmed in black and white painted stones, I greet Cape Verdean, Portuguese, Brazilian, Guinean (Bissau), Cuban, and German colleagues in Kriolu and Portuguese. If power’s out, people cluster on the veranda smoking and chatting. Farmers fresh from the fields mingle with snappily dressed office workers. Extensionists zoom in and out of the parking lot on 1970s and 80s Honda dirt bikes, past 90s pickups and sparkling 2000s Toyota Prados (Land Cruisers).

In the office I sit with my boss and our colleague, competing for the Ethernet cable. Gmail offline is my savior. I bring toilet paper and hand sanitizer, in the likely situation the bathroom lacks both. To flush, turn on the water to fill the tank as it’s not automatic. I once had to scour the maid closet, finding a bucket of mop water to flush because the tank wouldn’t fill. In this water-poor country, if it’s yellow, let it mellow, if it’s brown etc. etc. I do lunch at 12ish, going home for leftovers and returning at 1ish. I drink “juice,” a catchall term encompassing real juice, Coke, Fanta, and what I have, Foster Clark’s, a glorified Kool Aid. At 3:30 I leave, passing people desiring a ride.

Hitchhiking is normal. If you own a car you help those less fortunate. There are also paid taxis and shared vans/pickups, which run more-or-less fixed routes but stop where you want within reason. There are a few buses, and 40 of us once waited 30 minutes while a rider got a haircut. Most people let you jump in their pickup bed for a lift. If you want to go somewhere, start walking and you’ll get a ride.

For shopping, it’s the commercial district or Super Rodrigo, the cheapest food store. It’s been dubbed, by PCVs, the Wal-Mart of CV. It’s a supermarket, home/building supply, and bulk food store. Supermarkets are stocked like decent 7-11s or gas stations. Sometimes prices are marked. The Shell gas station is open everyday, while everything else closes Sundays. For fresh produce or fish it’s the Mercado Municipal, with women vending what’s in season, from apples to beans to goat cheese. Tuna, serra (sawfish?), grouper, and others are available. Sushi-grade tuna costs $2.50/lb. Unlike other W. African countries, there’s little haggling. For household goods visit Chinese stores (lojas chinés), owned/run by Chinese people. They vend hilariously low-quality goods cheaply. There’s another open-air market, with knockoff and almost new clothes and electronics.

I read, nap, or listen to BBC until 5:30 when run with friends. We go to the port and back, maybe 4 miles? If a ship just arrived we go see, or go to the beach, climb the rocks, or check out the fishermen motoring their little skiffs in from the choppy seas between Fogo and Brava, one of the smallest islands, hulking ominously in the distance. You can also see the Dry Islands (Ilhas Secas), which are uninhabited but intriguing.

Back home, I drink milk with camoca (like ground burnt popcorn kernels that didn’t pop with sugar), relax, and start dinner. Usually I have rice and beans, like a good Cape Verdean. After, it’s reading, meeting friends at a bar, or if Friday the discoteca. Every so often I shower. We have running water, but we do it the submarine way, i.e. get wet, turn off the water, soap up, then rinse. It’s on less than a minute. I hit the sack before 11 and repeat in the morning.

On weekends (not every weekend) I wash clothes, bending over a basin of water with a washboard and a bar of laundry soap, the kind in the US you’re not supposed to touch. At first it makes the skin fall off your hands, but they learn. You can also wash your face with it. After wringing, I hang clothes on the roof, hoping the neighbor’s dog Kiko won’t tear them down and stink ‘em up like she did with my 2nd favorite pair of pants. The sun’s strong, drying clothes in 3-4 hours. I have trouble grasping how a “real” washing machine works now, considering I use about 3 gallons of water and no electricity. Clothes take a beating, but they’re cleaner than with a machine. It’s a good workout, but probably explains why many older women are hunchbacked.

I guess the last difference is total strangers are nice and invite you into their lives, especially in rural areas. I don’t think it’s because I’m white, either. It makes a big difference speaking Kriolu, not Portuguese, the language of colonization, oppression, and starvation (100,000+ Cape Verdeans died of hunger in the 1900s). More so in Chã, I felt like an accepted member of the families.

All right txau. Obrigadu.

I’m pretty much settled in São Felipe. Two Thursdays ago I got a boleia (free ride) with a friend to Chã das Caldeiras. I stayed on Lauren’s cot, which is built to comfortably sleep people under 5’6”. I’m not one of them. You kind of have to curl up in Chã at night right now anyway since it’s cold. When I bought a 45 degree sleeping bag before leaving, I thought, “Ha, 45 degrees I’m going to Africa this is overkill. I’m getting screwed!” Incorrect.

We made the rounds, saying hi to everyone. We spent time at Ramiro’s, but that goes without saying. Everyone was nice but it was hard to go just to leave. I need to quit Chã cold turkey. I’m losing my cat eyes too; walking in the dark without a light was somewhat difficult.

We left Saturday, so Friday night Lauren and I had dinner with a visiting Peace Corps boss and a mutual friend. The mother of my favorite village girls works at the restaurant. Friday those three, their son/brother, and another restaurant worker watched Home Alone on a portable DVD player in the kitchen where there are outlets connected to the generator. I had a good time explaining, as it was in English with Chinese subtitles, inexplicably.

Odja kel jelo na txon. E sima nha zona na merka. (Look at that snow on the ground. It’s like in my zone in America). E verdad? (Is it real?). Sim, e verdad. (Yeah, it’s real). Es sta na Paris. Es skesi ses fidju. (They’re in Paris. They forgot their son).

The next morning as we got in the pickup, the mother ordered a daughter back to the house, and moments later she returned breathlessly with a sack of potatoes and apples for me. Just another reason why I love it there. It’s not the free food, but it’s that they need it much more than me but wouldn’t think twice about sharing.

I finally got the rest of my stuff from Chã, including my clothes hanger thing, oven with gas tank, mattress, bed frame, and shelf unit. I never managed to get a park car, so we loaded the winery pickup with some stuff and put the bed in a work truck full of bottled wine for sale. The driver, Adriano, took it straight to the house in São Felipe, while we went to Ponte Verde and Curral Grande. Then I went to São Felipe with the stuff and finally put together my room.

It’s worth mentioning that the Chã winery will export wines to the US for the first time, in the Boston/Brockton area. Every year production rises, so winos be on the lookout. They produce white, red, rosé, passito, grappa, grogue from quince or grapes, and several liquors, like pomegranate and one infused with local herbs (digestivo).

A few weeks ago a neighbor girl in Chã was wearing a midriff-length shirt. She raised her arms and Lauren and I saw a bright white streak across her belly. “Psst, ben li. E kuze?” (Hey, come over here. What’s that?) She had a nasty burn from hot jam, football-shaped, maybe 2in X 1in. The white stuff was toothpaste. I ran and got my PC med kit and we instructed her how to properly care for it and gave her triple antibiotic and bandages.

I feel the office slowly crushing my soul, to exaggerate slightly. It’s tough to maintain Kriolu sitting at the computer all day. One benefit of living in São Felipe is I’m learning Portuguese. I’d never speak it to the average João, but it’s imperative when working with international consultants, who of course don’t know Kriolu. It’s useful in a lot of places too, like Brazil, Moçambique, Guiné-Bissau, and Angola. It’s the 7th most spoken language in the world…

This Saturday Jonny and I got together with friends at one of their houses for lunch which ended up lasting ‘til eleven. The guy with the house is a Luxemburger working for the water company on Fogo. Two of his colleagues, another Luxemburger and a Columbian came. Then there was a gaggle of Portuguese, three nurses and three dentists. Two Cape Verdeans came. One German working to develop the wine industry made it. And finally three Turkish rock climbers showed. It’s a really nice group. I like everyone and getting to practice Portuguese. I don’t feel comfortable speaking it to Cape Verdeans, being the language of colonization and oppression.

Sometimes I feel so far from what I imagined before leaving the US. One of my first projects will be a website, far from community development for which I volunteered. If I can make an impact on people’s lives here, that’s good, but still I feel, so, I don’t know…

Thanks for reading. Nhos fika kampion (You all stay awesome)

I’m in São Felipe now, working in the Parque Natural do Fogo office. I’m planning a project to help women entrepreneurs in Chã das Caldeiras improve their jam and preserves business. Hopefully I can help create labels and find more places to sell products, as well as teach basic business practices like accounting, all with the goal that they’ll take over every aspect of the project making it sustainable.

Cape Verdeans are incredibly generous people. There’s never not enough food, drink, room in a car, etc. The other day one of the PCVs was in town with a 10 year old boy, Antonio, from her village. They wanted some food, and though I’d already eaten and wasn’t hungry, decided to accompany them. Antonio ordered rice and beans with pork, and guava juice (which is awesome, why can’t we get it in the US?).

He repeatedly asked why I didn’t order. Wasn’t I hungry? No, I said, I’ve already eaten. When the food came he insisted I eat some of the rice and beans. There was no other option. I also had to drink some of his juice. It was around 2 or 3 pm by now, he probably hadn’t eaten all day, and was quite hungry. But you cannot eat in the presence of someone who’s not eating. It’s unthinkable, even to a boy of 10. If you have something today you share it, even if you won’t have anything tomorrow. Someone tomorrow will take care of you.

I love going to parties in the fora, which I guess is the “bush” of Cape Verde, where there’ll be half as many plates as people or three cups for twenty people, but it always works. You can share a plate or pass the cup. Someone will wash the dishes. It’d probably give a public health worker a nightmare, but it feels nice. I love the communal attitude. Interestingly enough, I’ve had few colds and minor maladies you’d expect from sharing food and utensils.

Recently I went to a party in the fora with another PCV. We waited with a Cape Verdean friend for what seemed like forever for our ride, a Dyna (we have several modes of transport, all Toyotas: Hillux, a pickup, Hiace, a van, and Dyna, a big pickup-style work truck). We picked up a group of our European friends (from Germany, Italy, Portugal, and Luxemburg), and hit the road. We headed up the main road towards Salto, where it splits right to Cova Figueira or continues straight to Chã das Caldeiras. Before Salto we turned onto a dirt road which was rough, and at one point all the men had to get out and walk so the Dyna would make it.

We finally got to the party, which turned out to be an old house emptied of its contents, replaced by a DJ booth and speakers throughout the two room dwelling. They had a bar as well. There was a high cover charge for men (500$ CVE, or $6 USD), so we debated amongst the corn stalks whether to go in or not. It was cold and we’d come far, and we didn’t have a way to get back besides walking, so we sucked it up and paid. It turned out to be fun, and we danced all night.

Around dawn one of the German guys and I noticed the rest of our group had disappeared. We got a little frantic, thinking we’d missed our ride. Someone mercifully helped the two confused white dudes, showing us that our friends were behind the house getting breakfast. The house had a detached kitchen (this is good when you cook with wood), and old women were laboring in the chokingly smoky hovel, over giant cast iron pots of coarsely ground corn, xarem. One of the women, perhaps the lady of the house, apologized profusely it was only corn and there was no meat. I assured her the food was good and we didn’t need anything more. Such incredible hospitality. After breakfast we huddled into the back of a pickup and hit the chilly road to São Felipe, to collapse into bed and catch a few hours of sleep.

So I moved to São Felipe Tuesday. You could say I’m bummed. Bummed isn’t strong enough a word but yeah. I’ll refer to São Felipe as Bila, from now on though. That’s what people from the fora (country, sticks, etc.) call São Felipe. My heart’s in the fora, so it’s Bila to me. Bila comes from the Portuguese villa, which evidently is what they called their biggest cities on the islands. Many people in Bila pity me that I had to live in Chã das Caldeiras. But no, I tell them, “Txan e mas sabi” (Chã das Caldeiras is way better than Bila).

Sure Bila has perks, like electricity, running water, free internet in the plaza, places you can buy food, etc. But if you know me, and how crazy I am, these things don’t make me happy. They make me wonder where I am and what I’m doing there. Every hour, every day. I never had doubts about joining, everyone agreed it was a perfect fit for me (minus my Mom, obviously. “Why not AmeriCorps or Teach for America?”), but now…

The night before I left Lauren and I went to Ramiro’s, the only place to hang out after dark in Chã. Some of the guides and the new president of the association, our friends, were there. When they learned I would leave the next day, they organized an impromptu despidida (going away party), buying bottle after bottle of manecom and tons of spaghetti with spam and chorizo for Ramiro’s wife and daughters to prepare. Everyone got a good meal (not always a regular occurrence at their homes) and had a good time (inevitably). I couldn’t express my gratitude properly in Kriolu, other to say that I feel like the people of Chã are my family. I think they understood. I don’t expect such a feeling in Bila.

The next day a truck came and picked up half of my stuff. We had to leave my bed, oven, propane tank, shelf unit, etc. At least I get to go back to Chã to get the rest. My neighbors and landlady are sad, the latter saying she felt safe with me there, her room being attached to my two (bedroom and another for everything else). Riding in the back of the truck with my stuff was surreal, everyone I forgot or didn’t get a chance to tell realizing as we passed with a full load that I was leaving. I hope they’ll understand it wasn’t my choice. I hope they won’t think I gave up on Chã. I didn’t.

I’m typing this up in Chã. It’ll be one of my last blogs from here. I have to move to São Felipe in January against my will. I love Chã, the people, the landscape, everything. I feel at home here. I love the fora, which means countryside, or “out” literally, but is really unexplainable in English. It’s just the fora. I’ll miss it so much.

I’ve become used to the lack of physical space and comfort here, whether in trucks, the city, parties, etc. A few days ago I came up from the city. A woman with two small girls got in next to me, so I grabbed one of the girls and put her on my lap, as is normal. About two minutes before they exited, the girl puked all over her shirt, my arm, and some of my shirt. I shrugged my shoulders, took the rag from her mom, and cleaned up as best I could. It didn’t bother me at all, strangely enough.

I’ve been doing well otherwise. I climbed the volcano again yesterday, with the sister of another PCV and one of the best local guides. He’s climbed it over 1000 times, and led his first tourist group when he was 12. Once he did it 20 times in 20 days. I’m learning the trail so I can lead groups of PCVs and friends when they visit.

Last weekend I went down to Mosteiros with Lauren. We did the hike from Chã, with took a solid four hours. It was almost all downhill, which sounds easy, but was incredibly difficult. By the time we arrived our legs were trembling uncontrollably. The trail goes through some of Fogo’s best farmland, with bananas, coffee, guava, and more. It goes through the island’s protected forest, very remote villages, and the Natural Park’s nursery. The weekend was great. It’s always nice to see other PCVs. We’re like family here. It’s more than friendship. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the other PCVs here. They’re all I’ve got. Well, and the people in the village. But when you really need to talk only English will do.

Thanks for reading. I hope wherever you are as the holidays approach, you’re able to be with the ones you love.

Hey Everyone,

I hope all’s well where you are. I’m doing pretty well, spending the weekend in Mosteiros with some other PCVs. We did the hike down from Chã, which is beautiful. It took four hours and my legs are killing me today. Who knew all downhill could be so tough?

The other day I climbed the volcano for the third time. It’s awesome to see the ocean from the top. It’s like you can see ‘til the end of the Earth. I climbed with another PCV, a local guide, and two Dutch tourists. Their son/brother went to Michigan for his master’s. It’s always fun to meet people who know Michigan for things other than Eminem and Detroit as the Murder City, not the Motor City, Motown (perhaps not for long?!?), or Hockeytown.

I’ve been working lately gathering information about the mountain guides in the village. Most young men say they’re guides, but of the 30+ I catalogued probably 7-10 fit the bill. I would willingly climb with most of them, but then again I speak Kriolu. They all know the trails, though. Everyone here is at least bilingual, if not trilingual. It’s amazing.

My landlady’s daughter just got into town today, so we had a nice feast. I can’t get enough kabrito (baby goat). It’s so cute yet so delicious. The other day my neighbor’s horse killed two of his three kabritos… Even the cassava was good. Perhaps it’s growing on me. I still consider it a cut-rate potato, though.

I don’t have much time left before my battery dies. Thanks for reading.

I’m writing from the Parque Natural office in São Felipe, which I guess is technically my…office? Everything’s well. I’m in town for the night, since I got a free ride and kind of need to charge electrical things.

Last weekend was sweet, as some volunteers on Fogo got together in Cova Figueira for Thanksgiving and the conselho (county…ish) festival for Santa Catarina. There are two or three conselhos on Fogo, and Chã das Caldeiras happens to be in it.

Although we couldn’t arrange a turkey, we got two cabritos (baby goats), which were quite cute, but also quite delicious. We also had apple pie, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and pumpkin (squash) pie. I personally gorged myself, but it was a nice change from the rice and beans I normally eat. That said, my rice and beans recipe is getting better every time, as well as my bread.

The main feature of the festival was live music, which started around 11 pm (depending on if the generator was working) and go ‘til at least 5 am (my bed time is 9:30 normally). It was fun to get together with everyone, do some dancing, and experience the culture. I’m just as good at dancing in Cape Verde as I am in the US (not great).

I got back on Monday, having been gone since Friday. Sadly, my village’s oldest resident, at 104, died Sunday so I shared the truck up with mourners dressed in black, teary-eyed and somber. In CV there are seven days of mourning, with women crying hauntingly. I haven’t made a visit to the deceased’s home but I’ll do it tomorrow or Sunday.

On Tuesday my boss from the Parque came with someone from Praia who’s helping collect info about tourist stuff in Chã, like hostels, restaurants, cars, etc. I’ve been showing him around interviewing and taking pictures. I think several ideas for projects have emerged, and there’s potential to help further with this project. It seems accounting isn’t done, so as much as I disliked ACC 271 and 272, I might have to pass on a few things. Next week we’re going to climb the volcano and hike the border of the volcano crater, a two day trek.

I haven’t been running the last two weeks because I kicked a rock and cut my big toe nicely playing soccer barefooted with neighbor kids. They seemed impressed with the cut and the blood, which is cool as they’re way more cut up since they rarely wear shoes doing farming chores. The Peace Corps doctor was in the village this week and it doesn’t seem infected! The post-cut advice I received was, “André bu ten ki bisti zapato ora ki bu sta joga futebol” (Andrew you have to wear shoes when you’re playing soccer). Quite helpful advice indeed, though I think I learned that lesson on my own.

After I left the Parque office I played Scrabble with Johnny and made rice and beans for lunch. Then I surfed the old inter-web and some shopping at Super Rodrigo, which of course was outstanding as always. Johnny and I did some Tae Bo with one of his buddies and his class in a school courtyard overlooking the Atlantic. It felt a million miles from Chã and not a whole lot like Peace Corps, but a good workout nonetheless.

All right that’s it for now; thanks for reading.

Txan Blog 2

This is my first attempt to write a blog up at site. We’ll see how long the battery lasts. Good thing I have a Gateway (sarcasm!). Everything’s going well; last week was eventful.

Tuesday I came to São Felipe to watch the election in a bar with some other volunteers from Fogo. We lounged for awhile, did internet, shopping, etc, ‘til it was time. We went to a bar run by a guy name Vicente to hang out before dinner. Then we went to Tropical, whose owner lived in the US and promised CNN on the satellite. Getting it turned into somewhat of an ordeal but we had it by the time it was important. Before that we watched election coverage from a French station. It was a fun group, with a former volunteer, current ones, people who’d lived in the US, and Cape Verdeans interested in the race (most of the population was aware of the election, and I’d guess 99.9% were pulling for Barack). We were there ‘til 4:30 am our time (pretty late when you go to bed at 9:30 pm regularly), when we got the final result.

Everyone was ecstatic and felt the importance of the event. I have to admit I shed a tear or two when Barack made his speech in Grant Park. We wandered the empty streets back to the volunteer’s house where we stayed, passing out wherever we could find room on the floor, futon, or beds. Around 8:30 we got up, a few of us got breakfast (so good…goat cheese, fresh bread, coffee, banana), and ran errands. I went to the market to get produce, including kovi (kale?), carrots, onions, cabbage, and garlic. Even though my village produces lots of food, it’s nearly impossible to buy there. Then the internet and back to the house.

Many Cape Verdeans have asked me about the election and expressed excitement at Barack’s victory. I don’t think Americans realize how important this election was to the entire world (I don’t think we care about the world outside our borders much, and it’s a shame). The average Cape Verdean probably is fuzzy on the policies of the two candidates, but they know about the wars that have started over the last two terms, the economic problems, and know that with Barack there’s a better chance of positive change, especially regarding war. Cape Verde is a very peaceful country. There are no tribal divisions like on the continent, which fester because of a lot of things, including arbitrarily drawn borders by colonial powers. That’s because the Portuguese pretty much destroyed any differences, good or bad, between people, when they brought them to these islands as slaves. Older Cape Verdeans also remember men getting shipped off to fight for the Portuguese in Angola, to essentially forced labor in São Tome, or fighting for freedom in Guinea-Bissau. I suppose I’ve gotten off track…

We waited forever for the car back to Chã das Caldeiras, and ended up going with a Parque Natural pickup, which was great because it was free. It’s expensive to go back and forth, so whenever you can get a free lift, take it. The ride was nice, with awesome views of the mountain as we climbed into the clouds. We picked up a family along the way, and I ended up holding a rather disheveled baby boy since I was in the cab and his parents were in the bed. The bed affords a much better view but you have to hold on and ride with fresh-ish fish, and possibly goats, chickens, or pigs.

Friday was the inauguration of the winery, which felt very un-Peace Corps but was really fun. It’s been running for…5-10 years but finally everyone got together to celebrate. After waking up a little late I ate a PB&J with terrible coffee I bought from Super Rodrigo (the Wal-Mart of Fogo, so they say) in São Felipe. Then I scrubbed my backpack, which not surprisingly got fish juice on it riding in the bed of the Parque Natural pickup. Afterwards I took a shower, or rather, boiled water, put it in a bucket, and took a bucket bath.

Around 10:30 I got to the winery, thinking I was late, but nothing had happened yet. I sat with the women and peeled potatoes. There was a ton of food, including two goats, two pigs, at least 100 pounds of potatoes by my estimates, pot after pot of beans, rice, and everything else that makes a Fogo feast complete.

Around 12:30 things got rolling, with all VIPs arriving. There was a representative from COSPE (Italian NGO active here which supports the winery), the ambassador from the European Union (the EU also funds the winery), the head of the zone’s council, the minister of environment, and incredibly, the president of Cape Verde. He gave a great speech, in Kriolu (everyone else spoke in Portuguese), about how Fogo has potential in wine, coffee, aloe, and fruits, as well as tourism, but it has to do things well. It’s no good to produce crappy wine or coffee or run a second-rate hostel.

After the speeches (the president spoke last, as he was the most important person), there was wine tasting (white, rosé, passito, and red), Fogo goat cheese (so good), and toast. After the one good corkscrew broke I helped with my Swiss army knife’s corkscrew. Then came food, bowl after bowl, plate after plate. Everyone was stuffed, and there was a lot left over. This was great for the community, as many women came and took some for their families. No one eats much meat here, and it wouldn’t surprise me if this was the best meal some of the kids had eaten, and certainly more meat than usual.

When it all wrapped up around 5 pm, Lauren and I went over to Casa de Ramiro, a store/bar where Ramiro and family/friends play traditional Cape Verdean music. We sat awhile with the mix of locals and tourists who normally fill the tiny place in the evening. Exhausted from a day of gorging myself, I made the short trek downhill to my place, ate cake for dinner, and hit the sack.

Otherwise I’ve been keeping somewhat busy, reading, learning to bake bread, talking to people, getting back into running, practicing Kriolu, casking fijon. I just finished The Three Musketeers (thanks Shanka!), the 12th book I’ve read at site. Pretty soon I’m going to start giving an English class for the mountain guides and others involved in tourism. We get a lot of Germans, all of whom speak English, and expect an influx of Brits. I hope to get that off the ground in the next few weeks. I just made a delicious pot pie for dinner. It was great. I’ll make it for you sometime, especially if you visit.

Well, that’s it. Thanks for reading. Fika fixi (stay fine)

Sorry for not positing the last month or so. The transition from training to actual service was quite hectic, and my site, lacking electricity and thus an internet caf� makes it difficult. Still, I�ll try to get posting more regularly as I have more time to write, once I find a place to charge my laptop.

I live in Ch� das Caldeiras on the island of Fogo (Fogo means fire in Portuguese; the island is a volcano). I live in the crater of the original volcano. Mt. Fogo is the highest peak and is literally in my front year. I climbed it with several Spanish tourists and a local guide, which took around four hours up and 1.5 hours down. Going down is sweet; you kind of ski/run or loose cinders. The volcano last erupted in 1995 (with no loss of life, Mom!).

My house is a two room cinder block rectangular box connected to my landlady�s bedroom and kitchen. She also has several rooms to rent to tourists, primarily Europeans. If you�d like to visit you can stay there, if you don�t want to share my double bed or the concrete floor. No electricity or running water, which was actually quite easy to get used to. I get water from a tank which is filled from rainwater from the roof, bucket by bucket. Thankfully, my most possession, my Freeplay Summit shortwave radio, is solar and crank powered. I charge my cell phone at the winery here, a project funded in large part by an Italian group. It has solar panels and a generator for power, and it�s understood that citizens can charge phones there. I cook for myself on a gas stove, the kind you have to light with a match and almost burn your hand. I don�t keep much food on hand, lacking a fridge. I wash my clothes by hand every so often and am probably scoffed at by the more �traditional� Cape Verdean men.

So this is a rich agricultural area, as a result of the volcanic soil and relatively good rain. Right now is the fijon and nbonji harvest, types of beans. I spend lots of time with local women removing beans from the pods. Apples are just coming in, and grapes, pomegranates, and quince just finished. There�s also coffee, tomatoes, potatoes, and other beans. People keep fewer animals here than in my training village on Santiago, but there are chickens, pigeons, cows, pigs, goads, donkeys, and wild Guinea fowl.

This is a big tourist area by Cape Verdean standards (the country is small, around 450,000 people with a landmass equal to Rhode Island, divided amongst ten islands). Oh Kevin, if you read this, Rhode Island is not an island. I live on an island, which is surrounded on all sides by water. That�s what an island is! There are a few restaurants and hostels as well as the winery. I like talking to tourists, apologizing for the last eight years of American politics (Peace Corps is nonpartisan, but volunteers aren�t required to be), etc. I�ve met Germans, Portuguese, Swiss, Austrians, Spaniards, Brits, French, as well as workers from Guinea Conakry and Bissau, Senegal, Liberia, and Sierra Leone. I never know what language to speak to them, and sometimes I just speak Kriolu to make fun of the tourists.

Sorry this has been rater dry; the next ones will be better. So I guess I�ll go through an average day:

Wake up around 6:30 when the birds start chirping and my landlady stirs. Make breakfast, normally PB and J or oatmeal, and coffee. Listen to BBC and do Sudoku or crosswords for awhile. Read Newsweek or a book for awhile. I try to run a bit either before or after lunch. It�s hard with the altitude and I�ve been sick the last few weeks, but am better now. Then I go up the road to the other volunteer�s house, usually getting diverted to help shuck beans or talk. Then Lauren and I chill awhile, talk to people, bounce project ideas back and forth, etc. For lunch it�s usually leftovers, rice and beans (the local staple), some sort of stew, or pasta. Afterwards it�s more of the same until dinner. After dinner I read by candlelight for an hour or two, until I�m tired. I�ve read 11 books so far (�Siddhartha� was the best, �Naked Lunch� the most difficult, probably because Burroughs was strung out on heroin when he wrote it). Finally I blow out the candle, curl up in my sleeping bag, and hit the hay.

I think the best thing I�ve see, so far, aside from the view from the top of the volcano, was a drunk guy in a hockey jersey, cutoff jean shorts, and Timberlands, riding a donkey down the road, slumped to one side, at 10 am apologizing profusely. The night before I found him passed out on the side of the road in the dense fog.

É modi? (What’s up?) A week from writing this we swear-in (a few days from revising as I didn’t get a chance to post). I’m excited to end training, as I think most trainees are. It’ll be sad when we spread out to our islands, though it’s probably not a lot different with volunteers in countries on the mainland, given the remoteness of their sites. It’ll be tough to say goodbye to everyone, but we’ll get together for trainings and visits to other islands or the continent (as I plan to do…roundtrip to Dakar is $500ish).

We went to Praia today (last Friday) to the embassy and to see the hospital, pharmacy, Peace Corps office, etc. Leah, our Kriolu instructor Arlindo, and I got awesome Senegalese food and juice made from hibiscus boiled with sugar, also Senegalese. 200$00 CVE for a solid meal isn’t bad (that’s $3 USD). Street food + no stomach problems = awesome. Apparently it’s Ramadan so the Senegalese restaurants were rather deserted, as many Senegalese in Cape Verde are Muslim. Happy Ramadan Ammar!

And speaking of friends from home (I miss you all), I met a Cape Verdean who looked exactly like you, Mary G. Well not exactly, as, well, you’re descended from Europeans and she from Africans, but other than that, mirror images.

Praia has a reputation for being dangerous, but I think if you’re careful it’s okay. It’s like any other big city (but Praia isn’t big…100k-150k). I think Praia’s safer than Dakar, Conakry, Freetown, Accra, etc. Anyway, we’re getting to know it and it’s cool. I was trying to haggle with a Cape Verdean woman over a watch band in the market and she asked how long I’d been in Cape Verde. When I said two months, she said much to my delight that my Kriolu was quite good for having been here such a short time. She did not, however, lower the price. It’s better to haggle with the Senegalese and Guineans and other West Africans.

We often have discussions regarding Cape Verde versus the continent. Most of us assumed we were going to Mozambique when we received nominations to Portuguese-speaking Africa. That assumption kind of symbolizes CV’s relationship with Africa. On a map it’s pretty close, though Europe’s close too. The people look African, but with European blood as well. The language, Kriolu, is a mix of Portuguese and languages from Guinea-Bissau, but is 80% Portuguese. It’s not Africa, it’s not Europe, it’s Cape Verde. Apparently Peace Corps Volunteers from Senegal vacation in CV, but we want to get there. Perhaps the grass is always greener on the other side. Actually, though, the grass is always greener in Senegal since CV gets 10 cm of rain a year.

As for me and everyone who knows me, my heart is with Africa. I will get back to the continent. CV has different challenges than the mainland. It’s unique in that I’ll combine environmental knowledge and passion with business acumen. I’ve warmed to the idea of using business, as being in Africa to try and help is more important to me than escaping business. It’s a change of heart, but I don’t think it puts me any closer to returning to the corporate world. If any fellow Ross alumni read this, sorry about Lehman Bros and Merril-Lynch.

So anyway on the 21st I’m off to the volcano. A current volunteer just moved to the town, so if I want to play Scrabble etc. I won’t have to trek down the mountain or take the three hour ride to São Felipe. I look forward to running on the park’s trails and eating fewer carbs. I will miss my host family.

All right well I think my host mom noticed that the house is using a lot of electricity, but she’s not sure why. So in that case, I shall shut down. I have to enjoy the electricity while I’ve got it though. Perhaps indoor plumbing as well? Thanks for reading this rather stream of consciousness entry. Txau!

The title of this blog says “I killed a pigeon!” Leah’s brother killed one and I killed the second. Afterwards Leah’s sister and I plucked them and watched her mom gut them. We held them tightly by the head and spun the bodies around until their necks broke. I think I’m going to kill one of our chickens soon.

Other than that extreme update, all’s been well. Kriolu is coming along all right. We had a practice test to see at what level we can speak. I made intermediate-mid which is what we need to get commissioned, so I can breathe a sigh of relief. On Fogo I’ll have to learn a slightly different dialect of Kriolu but it’s mostly the same. I hope to pick up Portuguese after I get solid in Kriolu. The volunteer I’ll replace indeed got quite good so I hope to follow suit.

I was sad on Saturday as I missed Michigan’s opening football game for the first time in years. As I write this on Monday night I still don’t know if we beat Utah. All I can do is hope for the best. I’m not sure it’s possible to watch a game live in Cape Verde; perhaps Praia has a bar that gets American TV.

We went to Praia on Friday to visit some various agencies. It was nice to return and see that it’s really quite manageable when you can speak Kriolu. We went to a huge supermarket (by CV standards, so maybe like a smallish Kroger). It was incredibly overwhelming after only seeing mini-markets and the regular market in Assomada. I left with a headache and none of the groceries otherwise unavailable in Assomada and certainly Fogo.

Sunday we did an activity with the village kids. We played duck-duck-goose (or duck-duck-turkey because we didn’t know the word for goose in Kriolu) and then did a project, making picture frames from trash we found in and around Assomada. It went pretty well. It’s amazing how creative some of the kids are. The boys make really intricate cars from discarded tin cans, bottle tops, and wire. It always makes me wonder what kinds of awesome things they could do if put in the right situation. I think it’s important for us to at least tell them they’re smart and creative since they’re relatively ignored by their parents, who are too busy working. Mostly kids are surprised we’d even stop to say hello, let alone compliment them.

Anyway that’s about it here. I’m enjoying myself in the village but look forward to relocating as well. It’ll be tough to say goodbye to the other trainees (or volunteers by then) but the challenge excites me. Thanks for reading and leaving comments. Ti logu (until later).

Well I finally pulled my laptop out and decided to write a blog ahead of time, before getting to the internet cafe. Last time, I plugged my surge protector into the outlet sans converter. I think it might have died. I didn’t realize my adapter is also a surge protector. Good thing I brought my big protector all the way from the US (sarcasm). My host family doesn’t have circuit breakers, so it instead killed all the lights instantly. I guess the system works well though. We have electricity around four hours each night. Other villages don’t have it at all.

Anyway, things are going pretty well. The language is coming along all right. It’s frustrating that though I can communicate my needs well enough, I can’t understand a whole lot Cape Verdeans say to me. Everything’s very one-sided. Most people don’t have the patience to say things three times, more slowly with each repetition, with gestures, alternative vocabulary, etc. It’s still amazing that we can speak as well as we can after only…what six weeks? Seven? I can’t remember. Sometimes time flies but other times it stands still.

In any case, training’s over in four more weeks and then it’s off to…well I don’t know where yet. Either the national park here on Santiago or the one on Fogo. I requested Fogo, as it’s more rural and more African culturally. Chances are good I won’t have electricity either. I requested to not have it. That sounds good to me, as nice as it is to have a working laptop. The northern islands tend to be more European. Fogo is also an active volcano. It erupted in 1995. No one died though, and Mom I promise it won’t erupt during the next two years.

So what else…This is such an intense experience and it seems to us trainees that so much has changed, that it’s weird to think that back home things are pretty much, so it seems, going along more or less the same as when we left. Clearly my English skills have already fallen. Now I know why I took the GRE before I left. Every so often you’ll meet a Nigerian, Liberian, or a Cape Verdean who learned English in the US or in Europe. Since it’s summer break a lot of Cape Verdeans abroad are back on the islands to visit. I guess now they’re starting to head back.

I’m learning a lot of cool things. I wash my clothes by hand in a sink which is basically a washboard mounted on a stand. It’s quite the workout but it also gets clothes incredibly clean. Most people where I live farm, which is inherently messy, but they still dress impeccably.

Anyway, it seems my host mom wants me to go to bed. I can’t say for sure but I should probably call it quits. Time to brush the teeth, get my chamber pot, and hit the hay (not literally, okay, I have a bed. Even though if you know me you know that I wouldn’t care if I didn’t have one). Ti logu (until later).

Bo tardi,

Iºm in Assomada, one of CVºs larger cities right now. We live in villages around the city with host families and train here every so often. PST is really busy so I havenºt had much time to blog. We train for 4-8 hours a day in language mostly but other things as well (health, safety, technical, etc).

I live in a farming village which grows mostly corn and beans. My family (and many others) raise pigs, chickens, goats, and cows. Itºs definitely hard getting adjusted to an entirely new language. Kriolu comes from Portuguese and various African languages from Guinea-Bissau, Senegal, and other West African places. The people are nice and thereºs more of a community feel than in the US. People tend to be friendlier and watch out for one another. It seems like weºve been here forever (not in a bad way) but itºs only been three or four weeks. Itºs amazing how quickly the language is coming.

Uh anyway I need to get better at this blogging thing. If you (if anyone reads this!) have any questions just write a comment and Iºll try to respond next time I do this.

Txau,

Andrew

Hey Everyone. We leave for Boston's Logan airport in ten minutes for our flight to Cape Verde. After a quick staging (orientation), my group knows one another fairly well. We cannot wait to start training and eventually serving after nine weeks. Two of the other trainees maintain a blog with tons of pictures, so check them out: http://livingoncrumbs.blogspot.com/ Thanks for all the nice messages.

Welcome to my blog. I started this at the urging of friends and family, as I prepare for Peace Corps in Cape Verde, working in Community Development and Environmental Education. I hope to update this fairly regularly once I arrive in Praia July 17, but that depends on my internet access.

For anyone who does not know me, I grew up in East Lansing, MI with my parents and two brothers. I attended the University of Michigan, graduating with a Bachelor's of Business Administration and a minor in the Program in the Environment. I kept busy, serving three years as manager of the men's track team, joining Lord of Light Lutheran Church, and holding the position of Co-Chair of Outreach and Education for the Michigan Students Advocating Recycling (MSTAR) for one semester.

I decided to do Peace Corps for myriad reasons. My parents encouraged volunteer work, practicing what they preached giving their time and talent to East Lansing Public Schools and our congregation, University Lutheran Church. When I got to Michigan I did some volunteer work, mostly as manager. I thought I might want to do something like Peace Corps, Teach for America, or AmeriCorps.

In 2006 I took the incredible opportunity to research in Ghana for a month, under U of M's Global Intercultural Experience for Undergraduates (GIEU). Traveling with 11 students, we tried to develop and implement plastics recycling programs in Accra and Senya-Beraku. I consider it the best four weeks of my life, and the main reason I chose Peace Corps over the other options.

People ask, "Why go abroad when people need so much help here in the US?" Going to Ghana opened my eyes to the new realities. Seeing crippling poverty in person, not on TV or in pictures, hammers it home. I think of walking down an alley along a canal. Within probably 100 meters we saw people drinking the water, washing clothes in it, and defecating in it. This does not happen in the US. I do not want to marginalize the problems faced by millions in the US, or exaggerate living conditions in the developing world, but overall I believe I can do the greatest good with my education overseas. In Power Politics Arundhati Roy put aptly, saying, "once you've seen it, you can't unsee it."

The following summer I took the business school route, doing a marketing internship with Nike in Beaverton, OR. In my interview my future manager asked what I wanted to do after graduation, adding I did not have to say, "work for Nike." I told her I wanted to do Peace Corps, and she hired me nonetheless. I considered it important to give the corporate world a shot, to see if I truly wanted to volunteer 27 months. Nike, while an incredible place to work, reconfirmed my desire to take the road less traveled by Ross School of Business students. I cannot imagine a cooler place to work in corporate America. If I did not feel happy there, no traditional job could satisfy me.

In any case, I cannot wait to board the plane to Praia. I do not know what to expect, not that any future Peace Corps Volunteer (FPCV) does, but I look forward to whatever awaits in Cape Verde. Thank you to my friends and family for your continued support. I love you all.