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.