The light has gone

This is a pretty common phrase here. Light goes every night. So I write my updates at home (thank God for batteries) and post when I can. In this case, it's taken me a week to put this up. Since then, I have been sick with three different ailments, witnessed the slow bloody death of a large mammal, eaten parts of said animal, and contracted three botflies in three different areas. I'll spare you all the details of that one, suffice it to say that my language instructor thought I was trying to tell him "I have butterflies" for the duration of my story the day after I attempted to perform surgery on myself with my makeup mirror, tweezers, a flashlight, duct tape, and more flexibility than I was aware I had. Think about that one.

So this was written on 8.10.10, sorry for the delay:


I’m sitting in my living room with my feet propped up, with Barenaked Ladies stuck in my head from lesson planning today, enjoying a fresh mango from one of my family’s trees. I keep stretching my pinky finger too far for my asterisk key because I’m getting used to Portuguese keyboards.It’s been one of those days where I’m in between forgetting and remembering that I’m in Africa, if that makes any sense.

I got one of my fellow volunteers grounded last night. The story begins innocently enough (though in retrospect, the entire idea was bad to begin with on my part) right after class. We finished our language instruction in Assomada and were riding back to Ribierao Manuel and I was feeling really good. It was nice outside, I had energy, and I was focusing on the idea that I might have the best legs EVER after training because I practically climb a mountain twice a day to get from home to school and back for lunch. So I decided that I’d love to go for a run, which is something that the other volunteers in the village do often enough. So I decided to go. I got home, changed, stretched, and started to run to the bottom of the mountain to meet my friends and run to the neighboring village.

Walking and running, though undeniably similar, in Cape Verde elicit completely opposite reactions from people on the streets. Walking down the street every day results in “txiga! Txiga!” from all sides, which is what people say to mean “come over and eat some food and talk for a few hours.”Hence the Cape Verdean tendency to be late to things (which is unfortunate for my own personal growth considering the track record I was already working with in the States). Running, on the other hand, results in “Forsa, forsa!” which more or less means “go faster! Keep it up!” And given the fact that the average ten year old wearing flip flops (or better yet, nothing on his feet) can out-run any American here without breaking a sweat, the adrenaline rush and motivation is tenfold what I’m accustomed to on a treadmill. I’m justifying my pending story shamelessly, if you can’t tell.

The first bad idea was going out for strenuous exercise so early in the week. I take malaria medication every Saturday, and the pills give me sporadic dizzy spells and headaches, both of which I had experienced earlier in the afternoon. The second bad idea was running to meet my friends, who live a mile or more away or more, before taking a mile or two run to Monti Brianda and then turning around to come back. The worst idea of all was running down a freaking mountain. Did I mention that I live on a mountain? Because I ran down a mountain, on a cobblestone road, very very fast. I must have landed on a stone wrong at one point because once I reached my friend’s house and started slowing down, I realized that something was a little bit off with my left ankle. There are at least two or three doctors reading this right now who might email me when I say that I decided to keep going anyway. Diskulpa-n.

We went a mile or more down the road and I realized I couldn’t keep going. The endorphins were pumping through me like I’d never experienced before, and it was wonderful and I wanted nothing more than to keep running until I reached the ocean, but the physical reality of what I was doing to my body was setting in. I was able to run in spurts, but couldn’t go a distance without my ankle hurting. We also started slowly realizing that, while the fact that the lights in our conselho were out seemed like another good reason to enjoy the outdoors, it was quickly becoming a reason why we shouldn’t be out.

On a poetic side note, there was one point when my friends continued to run and I tried to walk it off on my own. Toby had mentioned that on their last run, he and Lynette had seen grasshoppers jumping all around them and that it was magical. I was disappointed to have missed it, and had been looking for them all the way down the road. They weren’t jumping as we ran, but once I slowed my pace, they started exploding out of the dry brush like fireworks on all sides. Even the sound of dry tinder cracking as they took off and landed was beautiful, and the sun painted everything sepia tone as it was slowly starting to set over the ocean. I was floating.

Back to the problem: the sun was starting to set, and as beautiful as it was, the streetlights wouldn’t be turning on that night and I was easily over 2 miles away from home with a hurt ankle. By the time we reached Lynette’s house, the sky was turning grey. There was only one more mile to go, but we hadn’t seen a karu (public transportation) go by and we were wondering if they’d stopped for the day. The last stretch also included the two clubs in our town and people aren’t confined indoors when drinking. It’s not a route that I want to ever walk alone after dark, as independent or comfortable as I may ever feel.

We ran past the bigger club in our town, but it had already become too dark to see and the roads are too bad to try once vision is compromised. By this time I’d developed a limp anyway. We neared the top of the mountain and I saw my host mother standing in the road at our neighbor’s house waiting for me. I had reached home by curfew, but didn’t even try defending my decision to go. Toby and Lynette headed back fast, not sure of the reaction they’d receive from their respective families, and I apologized endlessly to my mother and also one of my brothers, who actually chided me in front of his friends for not going earlier. I explained once I was inside that I had hurt my ankle and there was no karu coming up the mountain, and that my friends had been wonderful enough to walk me back home to make sure I was safe. In reality we should have asked one of the family members at the bottom of the mountain to walk me back, or as Lynette later said, should have at least stopped for a second to explain to the other families and have them call my mother at home to let her know. Easy enough in retrospect. You can’t beat the setting sun if you’re walking up a mountain with a lame ankle. I think that’s a West African proverb (it will be by the time I leave here).

So I got off easily enough. Lynette, I think because she is blessed with the gift of language learning, suffered more dire consequences than I, despite her heroic efforts to ensure my safe passage home. First of all, when the three of us reached the top of the hill, my mother started to direct her chastising at Lynette instead of me. Though I got a taste of it later. But once Lynette reached her homestay, hell broke loose. She’s rightfully decided to chalk it up as a cultural experience that reflects her ability to fully and completely integrate into an African home, but really she was grounded. She’s not allowed out after 5pm; I’ve ruined her afternoon runs. I’m hoping it only lasts a few days, because I want to go out again and make it the whole way. Toby’s family wasn’t even home, so he got off easy.

In the end, the technical worst of it was that Lynette ended up returning home ten minutes past curfew. My limp is nearly gone, I’d only pulled a small muscle I think, but all of the other muscles that I’d been previously unaware of (did you know that you have an upper ass? I did not) are going to hurt like a mother tomorrow; they’re already starting. I have some great motivation to keep it up, however, and will use this opportunity to promote my small side of the world.

The volunteers currently on Fogo are trying to put together the island’s first marathon, tentatively scheduled to be held August of 2011. Fogo is a beautiful island (actually it’s a volcano) with a lot to offer. If the views don’t do it for you, it also has a winery and is the source of most of the country’s coffee. They’re in planning stages so anything is subject to change, but if any of you fit runners know of marathon organizers who might want to take part in this, please let me know. There was a lot of talk of marathon training from many of you right before I left, and I think this would be a great project to become involved with, even from the States. The people of Fogo are really excited about this idea and it would be really great to see it through. I think the time frame is scheduled around the time of Fogo’s Carnival as well, so if plans do pull through, any runners out there, this would be the perfect time to visit me. Just be prepared to suffer the embarrassment of having been passed by barefooted children and women carrying straw on their heads. They’re also in need of doctors to be on hand in case of injury if anyone is interested (hint hint, G).

In other news, I receive my site placement in two weeks. I’m reaching the end of month one of 27. PST is intense but I’m loving the pace of it. I’m getting used to the lights going out (sidenote, our lights just went out), giant bugs and cold bucket baths (much more enjoyable after a hard run). All of the trainees had a relaxing beach day at Tarrafal on Saturday, which was so fun. So all in all, things are good. Do me a favor and enjoy some mac and cheese for me. And read a book instead of watching tv tonight.

Txao, Rakel