San Vicente and Sao Antao

I have been away from internet and electricity for a while, and occupied with magical encounters, jam sessions, food poisoning, and music festas.

Here on the island of San Vicente, contradiction grows in every nook and cranny. The atmosphere is European.. coffee shops, well placed cobblestone streets, and noses that are ever so slightly turned up compared to the more "african" areas of santiago island. But from the 15th to the 17th, and the Baia da Gatas festival, everything and everyone seemed to come together. Music from all over the islands, in traditional to contemporary music styles, took place on a giant outdoor stage, with unwavering sound and a surprising lack of technical problems. (They must have somehow aquired a private generator from the local "Camera" or government.) Along the beach leading up to the big crowd filled stage area, tents lined the water. From make shift scraps of stick and fabric, to heavy duty REI bought tents, to those that looked like something out of a 1950s French riviera movie, people planned to camp out the whole three days. Sadly, or not so sadly, I had the opportunity to stay with some peace corps volunteers. A former PCV was basically kicked out for dating the former governer of the nearby island... and we got to stay with this former governor in his house... quite odd, but quite hilariously perfect.

I digress of course.

Around the festival, smaller stages and performing areas were present. I was delighted to find a samba reggae group performing in one of these spaces. I could have smacked myself for not bringing my camera or videocamera. Restaurants from Mindelo (the main city) even posted signs in town saying that they were opening up their restaurants temporarily at the festival. The night was filled with dancing, incredible music... until daylight. it all didnt start up until around 11 or 12... so we often returned home around 4 or 5.

During one of the nights, apparently i was the only one who had not drank much (stomache issues that day), and the only one who could drive stick shift, so I got to drive myself and the former "President" of Pauul and his peace corps mistress home to safety... not sure how i did it, because the rules, if existant, are sure not followed, and winding cobblestone streets are nothing to stop drivers from flying and passing by... but somehow it was exciting in my sleepy, post festival stupor.

My streak of everything working out has somehow dwindled these past few weeks, and flickered away just like the continuously failing electricity here in CV. Of course, thatºs just how it is. The meeting that I had set up to work with a ceramic artist in Fontalema (a vertical village in the rural town of Assomada), was either forgotten by the artist, or perhaps just negated because of the rain. It is the rainy season here, and so working in the fields is priority for all the rural residents. Pottery, musical group performances, and other artistic happenings are not as prevalent, as men and women are busy reworking the newly moistened soil, weeding, and replanting things. The rain is fascinating... never a downpour (except for one mysterious night in praia)... but rather many sessions of a misting rain. It is actualyl quite refreshing, as if caught in between two distant sprinklers.

I then trecked off to Tarrafal, where later that day I had a metting with the leader of a chidlrenºs batuku group. When i arrived, i discovered that all the power in the town had been turned off, and i feared that this might affect our meeting. Arriving at the bar where we were to meet (the batuku director also owns the bar with her German husband) there were candles lit outside. Seeing me approach, she apologized completely forgetting about our meeting. No problem, letºs just talk! i said, whipping out my little voice recorder. Somehow the dark coverage and candlelight added atmosphere to our talk about batuku. She spoke about her passion for working with children, and how unlike most groups who will now only pay for money, she plays wherever she can, and for little or no money, because it is about keeping the spirit and tradition alive.

The next day was quite an adventure. I was supposed to go to Hortelao, an even more rural village where there is a womenºs collective. This group of women have two projects: to make pano de terra, a woven fabric used to wear around the waist for the batuku dance, and to make a particular kind of jelly preserves, made from local fruits and herbs. The person who was supposed to go with me backed out at the last minute, and quickly told me the various buses and cars i had to take in order to go. I ventured to the first town of Calietta, after taking a 1.5 hour bus ride through the northern coast. Arriving in Calietta, i called upon two new friends in the peace corps who i had met earlier that week, to see if they were around. i caught them just as they were about to go to lunch. to make a long story short, i was given directions that began from the wrong direction, and i ended up getting lost in the rain. upon asking a local fisherwoman where i should go, describing my american friends, she flagged down a passing truck (almost got hit in the process!) and asked the drivers to take me to the peace corps house. What a hilarious escapade. These guys were so old, and had no clue as to where the library was (the landmark that was next to my friendºs house)... every time i would explain to them, "um, i think we just passed it... or um, i think we are going the wrong way, " they would answer with, "you can never be lost in cape verde. someone will help you. what is your name"... ignoring my requests to stop. But they were trying to help. Eventually, i made a few more phone calls, and found my friends.

it just so happened that one of these girls saw a man who works in the agricultural center that runs the womanºs collective. "hey stop the car! are you going up to hortelao?" she asked, with me running along behind her. " yes, i am going up there at 3pm, you can come if you like". "perfect" i said. Giving me a few hours to relax and have lunch in this quaint yet animated coastal town.

Of course, after having a lovely lunch with rice, french fries, beans, and a local fish, i waited at 3pm for this guy to give me a ride to hortelao. I waited until 3:15. then 3:30. Then almost 4pm. Frustrated, i decided i would have to return to tarrafal, because the batuku director promised that i could meet the girls and play batuku with them at 6pm. The friend who had helped me find the driver, felt guilty about it not working out, and so tracked down a hiase van that was going that way. "can she get to hortelao, then back to tarrafal by 5;30?" she asked? "yes, no problem" the driver replied.

of course, there was no problem. but there was no way i was going to get to hortelao in this van. The vans leave each down only after recruiting a car filled with passengers, and we circled around as he would shout various names of the cities he would pass.... it wasnºt until about 4:30 that we were well on our way. I then said to the driver, "ya know, i dont think iºm going to make it to hortelao and then to tarrafal on time. So i am just going to go to tarrafal. where should i switch cars?" "yes you wont. this car is going to tarrafal"... which means that i was well on my way to tarrafal afterall. he clearly was just bullshitting when he said, "yes, i can get you to hortelao then tarrafal".. .just to get my business. crazy drivers.

While my excursion to Calietta and hortelao was a whirlwind of missed plans, and unreliable drivers, i made it back to Tarrafal in perfect timing to meet up with the Batuk group again. All these fallen plans didnt matter after meeting this small group of adorable, passionate girls. From 7 to 15, they drummed on their laps and sang songs of call and response, encouraging me to join in. Some of them were so excited about the camera i was holding, and would do their best to dance in front of it. Ida, the 4 year old beauty, whose lighter skin and hair would make you stop in your tracks, was the most comfortable in front of the camera, jumping at any increase in dynamic to dance harder while looking into the lens. Marisa the director, married a German man, and they have the most beautiful kids with the combination of their contrasting features and skin tones.

Tabanka

i came back to Praia purely for the purpose of watching the company Rais do Polon, the local contemporary dance company, perform for the cultural exchange program that I have been helping (in exchange for taking dance class and basically sponging off of their presentations and programs). Of course, in Tarrafal, i called them to ask when the company was going to perform. I had been given a private performance in their rehearsal, when i went to take their class... but i didnt video since i knew i would be seeing a performance of the same material. I was given the wrong information, and so i missed the performance by coming too late. The girl who had misinformed me attempted to call me back, but of course, sans cell (without cellphone) there was no way of reaching me. Frustrated and almost teary eyed, i instead arrived in time to see a local hip hop group perform.

There is comfort in knowing some of the streets in Praia, just after a week of wandering.

plan for the week: will hopefully work at a ceramic studio in Assomada (interior mountain village) tomorrow, then shoot off to Tarrafal on the opposite end of the island at night, to interview a local batuko director. Wednesday, i hope to go to another village, to talk to a womenºs collective who make pano de terra, which are a woven textile used for batuku dance. it is a dying tradition. THursday, back in Praia, and friday, off to the island of San Vicente for a music festival!

chicken crossing a road

perhaps un blog worthy. but i find it spectacular that i have now seen a chicken crossing the road, to get to the other side. In addition, roosters here seem to perform in rapid-fire rounds of call and response, their "cockledoodledoo" in the middle of the night.

a meaningless, yet spectacular detail of quotidien cape verdean atmosphere.

Tarrafal. Cidade das photos

I write, cidade das photos, because finally ive arrived in a last minute trip decision, to check out Tarrafal-- where i finally see the beautiful beaches and aqua green coves from my travel book. Of course, i tend not to follow the book... assuming it caters to those relying on the beaten path. But i have to say that seeing one small beach with such gorgeous water--the kind that has so much salt that you can just float like you are in an invisible chaselounge in the water. I was going to attend a festa in assomada with the friend i met the other day... but out of fear of the assuptions that go with a girl hanging out with a guy, i didnt want the friend to think i was expected to stay with him. Instead, after going out dancing until 5am last night, decided to be mellow and chill out in the coastal mysteries of this town.

more to come.

Leaving Assomada, i had to catch a "yaz" (not sure how to spell it, but thats how it sounds), to get back to Praia. As soon as i stepped out of the house, i was approached by one of the vans. "praia! praia! praia!"... um, "sim!" i said, wanting to wait for one that was already full, but strangely unable to resist getting this ride right away. Little did i realize, (although i knew from reading my travel book) that the van would circle around the town recruiting people prior to actually leaving, until it had a full car. It was quite hilarious seeing them try and "sell" a ride to everyone walking to work.



The ride back was difficult. I havenºt really slept much the last week... I often have to choose between sleeping with bombing, zooming mosquitos around me, with no cover and a hint of moving air, or cocoon myself in my sheet, to keep out the mosquitos. I prefer to sweat, but it sure doesnt make for a good nights sleep.



When i slapped myself out of the haze of the ride, starring dreamily out the steep green hills, i realized we were back in Praia, and i had to get off right away. And of course, i was that awkward, nervous american... whose bag was just too wide to fit comfortabl past the passengers and whose every step was a trip. finally making my way to the front, i couldnt open the van door with my bum wrist... and it took me three tries to do the special "reach around the window through the outside" technique required to open the van. Finally, i stumbled outside with onlooking eyes... almost forgetting to pay. of course, i leaned over to pick something up and my change falls out of my purse. horrifying. i picked up the 200 escudos handed it over and practically ran away. if i had a tail, it would have been dragging between my legs.

Mango picking and Batuko dance

I decided to meander down a path that descends down into the mountainous countryside, where women walk about a half of a mile to a water hole to get the days supply of water. I heard that there was a ceramic studio, where women make these bowls specifically for cooking Cape Verdean couscous. Along the path, I said hello to the families working in the steep fields of maze, and on the roofs of their concrete buildings. I was amazed at how friendly and eager people outside of Praia were... always smiling and eager to say hello. I even took some photos of some children playing, who giggled and lauged to the point of tears as they saw their image in my little digital camera screen. Along the path, everyone kept telling me, just keep going. keep going down, to get to the "ceramica". I really did know i had to keep going, but it was a way to break the ice and introduce myself. I soon made friends with a father and his little two year old daughter, who were standing five minutes later along the path. He insisted on showing me, with twho little girls trailing behind, where teh ceramica was. He had to find the artist so that she could let me inside. The manºs name was Alcides or Chidonin (not sure which one to call him), and he is getting his PHD in education and sociology in Spain.



To make a long story short, I ended up talking to the women in the ceramic studio, who said that they were not making anything at the moment, but to come back the following week to help her make some things. What fun! During the summer, when things are hot, most of the women who help with production are selling at the market, and do not focus on cermaics during the rainy season. Anyway, i bought a small version of the pots for couscous, and continued along with my new friend. (Agreeing to meet her next tuesday for my ceramic helping session.)



Alcides showed me around this little vertical village, passing by the small school where he grew up, down to the water hole, and through several houses of friends he was obliged to say hello to on the way. Somehow the subject of agriculture and fruit came about, and I mentioned loving mangos. "my uncle has some trees. Let us go find you some mangos!", and the next thing i knew, we were on a mission to go mango picking.



What was so funny, was that I already had several things planned for the day. Brian, one of the cool peace corps volunteers, agreed to help me with a random mission: To buy a live chicken and give it away to a "man with grey hair", which was a task I was supposed to do 4 years ago for a fortune teller in Senegal. I never completed it and thought this place would be perfect for fullfilling a belated task, with the help of a friend using my camera. However, mango picking took too long, and it was impossible to sneak out of such a fun and quotidian cape verdean situation!



We would find a long branch that had fallen, and hold it up to the tall trees, banging away at the bunches of seemingly rippened-yellowed--mangos. These were smaller than the mangos i had seen in senegal and those imported to the US. Smaller and sweeter, making it possible to eat them like candy instead of having to eat about a third of one of the huge ones.



The kids that were helping us (one 2 years old, and the other about 7) insisted on carrying the heavy objects, on the tops of their heads of course. The younger, couldnt quite get the balancing thing down, but she insisted on holding it with her tiny hands as she treked along behind us.



We then ate lunch at his family´s house (well, one of many families... i cant seem to keep them all straight) and as usual, got to speak with a mixture of portuguese, french, my newly learned words of creole, and English, depending on the family member. Many members, like my new friend who lives in Spain, have travelled to France, Portugual, Brazil and teh states to work, and are back for the summers. Its a great place to be to practice all these languages.



We then got a ride back to the main village of Assomada (with bags and bags of mangos in my hands, and his little girl in his), where he showed me the market--almost identical to those in Senegal, with colorful arrays of women selling beans, fish, clothes, ... anything one could imagine buying.



When i had a hard time finding my friend, who gracefully hosted my couch surfing, my new friend borrowed a car to take me to another local village, San Jorge. Apparently there was a botanical garden there, but for me it was the perfect place to take everything in. All the jagged cliffs, and steep green pastures seemed to combine there, and we were in teh center of it all, looking around us. priceless.



Later that night, painstakingly checking myself to make sure that the situation was ok, we went to check out a performance of Batuko. i will write more about this later. But basically, a circle of women form, with special balled up pieces of fabric and plastic bags smashed up in their lap. In a three part rhythmic beat, they bang away at their laps, while a singer takes turns with cascading songs of call and response with the drummers. Two young girls gyrated their hips with a cloth belt around their wastes (to emphasize their hip movment), rising and falling with the waves of sound dynamic. Their movments werent sexual, although in another context we would all be appauled by the apparent lap dance of these children... but here it was a combined announcement of femininity, power, and humor, as my friend translated some of the lyrics of the songs--about immigration, getting a new husband, and general love songs.

Iºm leaving to go back to praia tomorrow, and a part of me wishes to stay here, nestled with the unplanned adventures of friendly hellos, steep green hills, and a simpler life where everyone knows one another.

In Assomada

Assomada. Clouds, mountains, and women selling fish.

The `Yas`or little bus that takes you out of Praia to Assomada, into the interior of Santiago island is refreshing. Suddenly the crammed, stifling concrete buildings of Praia opened up to reveal a mountainous interior, green rolling crevaces spekled with little shacks. It was as if I was in one of those IMAX 3d movies...where you know you are on solid ground, stuck in your movie seat with spilling popcorn, but still you feel like you are going to fall over with the widescreen landscape shots. Here it was the same oximoron- crammed inside a little van, sweating profusely as your legs squash next to a woman with her baby... and yet the vast upcoming countryside makes you fall in disbelief.

THe people here are friendlier. They seem to respond more generously with their "bom dias" and hellos. I have run into one of the peace corps volunteers that i met my first night in Praia (they were celebrating the "despidida" of one of their colleagues... any excuse for a party). I got to talking with him and his host aunt. Clarizia. I asked her if she like to dance, wondering if she had any connections for my mission to encounter dance and arts.... she said she sometimes dances while she sells her candy. I demonstrated. Like this? SHe laughed. Yes. like that. I encountered sarcasm for the first time in Cape Verde. Ha!

Meandering and Festa~ing

First day in Praia, and I am constantly reminded by snippets of memories in Senegal. From the possibilities of encountering a giant cockroach in the bathroom, to showering with a bucket and jar, to spending hours on the rooftop, just staring at the countless women hanging clothes on their rooftops.

The peace corps volunteers that have been the definition of laid back and accomodating as temporary hosts on my trip, gave me a few pointers for where to meander. Attempting each day to plan to not plan, i began to wander. Up the street to ~Plateau~ one feels a bit disoriented, piering below the scattered slabs of housing below. Cobblestone streets, Chinese Logas, and street venders are plentiful, but not overwhelming. Further down the plateau center a giant marketlace filled with women dressed in African attire are selling fruits, vegetables and meats. In my jetlagged haze, i do not enter, but hope to return soon.

I continued down towards a soccer stadium, where one of the volunteers said there was an environmental event. I asked two young police officers for directions... not quick, as i had to explain why i was american and spoke portuguese, but not creolo. I escaped just after the ^you are pretty~ conversations started to occur, heading down to the stadium.

Once i headed down the rubble steps, the path seemed less and less taken.. i was advised to stay away from shadey places... literally... that in the shade of a tree is where people might be more dangerous. I continued along anyway, and stopped to talk to some people standing in front of a telecommunication station. I realzed i had no idea how to get into the stadium, and was around the back of the stadium. I never entered the stadium, or saw the event that was supposed to be going on in front of it. I ended up talking to this one man and his wife, and after chatting about safety in the area, he drove me around to see some of the other places- the two nearby beaches and a few other areas before dropping me off to where i was staynig. This place is certainly not beautiful. The streets are dirty, the structure is unclear and confusing, and the dark beaches are far from the tourist images of its nearby popular islands. Apparently the sand has been taken so much for construction and other projects, that the once vast sandy spots are now far fewer.

Later that night, i went to a festa with the peace corps volunteers, who were celebrating the Despedida of one of one of the volunteers. (When they finish their time). So many splendid people doing simple, yet important projects. I wanted to drop everything and join them, for unlike my 1-3 month projects and explorations, they really get to sink their teeth into their experiences.

And of course, I got my first dance experiences, with the local dances. Funana, much like forro in brazil, is a couple dance done to a quick accordion music. Simple steps, subtle differences depending on dance partner... but all about the shifting of weight and hips. Zuk is also incredibly popular here, just like in all over the world right now.

YIkes, gotta run. MOre to come.

Arrived

An endless chain reaction of late flights... and iºm finally here in Praia. Two Cape Verdean dads were complaining about the insanity of our late flight from Lisbon to Praia (the flight kept fluctuating between cancelled and malfunction, as everyone stood in line wondering what was going on.) As I laughed with the two men, motioning that "oh well, we cant do anything" we got to talking, and i was delighted that we could communicate with a mix of French and Portuguese. His daughter goes to school in either New Jersey or Los ANgeles... while those two places certainly dont sound the same, somehow i couldnt tell the difference with his accent... either way, he called me "nu jerseles" for the duration of the flight. They ended up taking me under their wing as the flight arrived in Praia 3 hours late, arriving at 3am. Bernardino, one of the men, was sure to ask around as we arrived if people knew the place where i was staying, and ended up dropping me off with his ride to his own residence. He even insisted that I not take any money out at this hour and gave me 5 bucks in cash just in case... i insisted on giving him dollars, but he smaked my hand, saying no no. if you come to Tarrafal, and mention my name everyone knows me.

Its quite a shock here. Reminds me of the cement buildings, construction, and disoriented feel of being in Dakar. Attempting to sleep after 28 hours of airports was surprisingly difficult, with the symphony of dogs barking. i could remember the first time being in Dakar, hearing sounds of dogs and goats, hearing my name with each baaaaaah. This time it was only barking. Layers and layers of barking.

More to write soon. talk of a music festival on an other island. Vamos Ver. we will see what happens.