Campanas

Two posts in one day!! Whaaa?

I haven't had internet in weeks and I haven't posted in even longer. The past month or so has been a rough one for me. It's part of the service and I found this quotation the other day that sums it up better than I seem to be able to:

Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it. – Cesare Pavese

Well said, Cesare. Part of the deal in being here is acceptance of bad days and the resolve to take them as they come, trusting the whole way through that we have the inherent strength to make it through to the other side. But sometimes we mess things up along the way. But this post isn't about bad days or the peculiarities of change. That's just a thought.

The past three days have comprised the festival of Campanas here in Fogo. Aside from festa Sao Filipe in April/May, this is one of the "bigger deal" festas on the island. Saturday was the killing day. I've seen a pig slaughter, and despite remembering the shaky feeling in my legs that persisted through the screams that gradually became gurgles and chokes on a seemingly endless river of blood, I figured I could witness an assembly line slaughter, having heard that goats are less vocal.

After we hunted down the house, my roommate and I sat in chairs along the wall and tried to figure out where the killing would take place. Gradually, the sound of drums broke through the assortment of voices, and grew until the assembly of drummers entered the house. A crowd of people holding flags preceded them, some with blood-stained pants and machetes with brilliant splashes of red down the sides tucked into belts. Everyone had blood on their shoes, having come from a house farther down the street where numerous animals had already been killed. One woman wearing all white--a torn shirt, pants and a scarf--looked like a violent Pollock painting. Others had red handprints on their faces, or splashes and dots between their eyes.

The house filled with so many people that we had to stand up. Eventually we saw an old woman carrying a large, metal bowl and we knew that the killing was about to begin. They collect the blood in bowls to use in chorizo, or blood sausage, which is one of the only foods here that I haven't developed a stomach for. We circled to another part of the house where I squeezed in just in time to see a goat being bled to death, with two grown men holding it above the bowl. I kept locking eyes with a Portuguese guy right around my age who evidently hadn't witnessed fora parties before. I wasn't sure if he was going to make it. One after another they led in a goat and professionally hoisted it above a bowl to saw through its neck, before stringing it to a tree to skin it. As one was being killed, another would be standing behind it, calmly, watching everything take place.

They killed three goats and I thought it was over. There was a gelatinous coating of blood on the dirt floor that people covered and danced on. Gradually people began to scatter, and seemed to be nervous. I looked towards the trees, now occupied by numerous dead animals, and saw a giant cow being led down to the area where the goats had been killed. Killing a cow is a process. First, four grown men led it to a tree where they tied its head to the stiff trunk. The hind legs were tied together, which was a fight, and gradually the animal was felled to its side and all four legs tied in a bundle. One man readied its neck, which meant sitting on its head to make sure it couldn't move. Two others held down the body, and a man with a knife broke through the people pushing past to try to find a comfortable distance. The woman holding the bowl danced through the crowd, the drumbeats not pausing during all of this, and after what seemed like an hour of nervous preparation, they slit its throat.

Watching a pig die is difficult. The screams last for such a long time that it almost seems necessary to look away. The cow didn't make a noise. Or if it did, it was drowned out by the drums. One of my students came next to me and put her arm around my waist, and after seeing so much blood throughout the day, I was worried that I might fall on her. The smell was overwhelming. Blood smells sickly, and thick and salty. I walked away for a breath of air and quickly heard the screams of a pig that was being killed on the other side of the house. There's no escape on festa day. But I held my own, though a little shakily.

It was astounding, really. The rest of the festa seemed fairly normal. The street was lined with people and it felt almost like a party that happens in Blacksburg every year, when people crowd in the streets to eat good food and drink a few beers and listen to the live music. Except here everything is public, from start to finish. Including the slaughter and preparation of the food that everyone eats. The rest of the time I wandered the cobblestone streets, ate good food (except no chorizo), watched the stars and talked to friends.

The background of this festa is the most interesting part, in my opinion. In the days of slavery, the only way that slaves could feasibly have an uprising was to dress in costume from head to toe so slaveowners couldn't recognize them. They would run from house to house in an attempt to scare and intimidate the slaveowners. Because of this, the "Rae di Festa" or king of the festival dressed from head to toe, even in blackface, kind of like a clown. He and his son (who also dressed up) got up early in the morning and went from town to town. Every man who wanted to participate in the killings that day had to catch the man and his son before they would be allowed to participate. If they caught both men, they could be part of the procession and help kill the animals. Another part of the tradition is that the king of the party steals things throughout the day, so I would occasionally see him running from a crowd of people who would be throwing rocks at him. At the festa after the killings, whenever I saw him he was carrying a goat head and threatening to attack people with one of its horns.

So it was a weekend filled with significance and emotions that left me absolutely drained when things were said and done. I regret not taking my camera with me, but will try to scavenge a few to post.

Somewhere over the rainbow

Adaptation is a funny thing. A primary goal in Peace Corps is integration. Yet one of the things that becomes difficult to grapple with is becoming accustomed to life and no longer feeling as though everything is exciting and new. There's not even sides, this is just the same coin.

A friend of a friend served in Senegal years ago and before I left the States, she wrote me a wonderful heartfelt letter of advice and thoughts on two years of service in a foreign culture. One of the things that she wrote is that one day I would likely wake up and find that things that used to be mysterious and exhilarating would feel normal, and it may result in feeling like I've fallen in a slump. I have to say that this part of service has been true for me. As it is with everything, really. But the great thing is that occasionally unexpected things happen that can puncture the mundane when I find myself slipping into routine.

A good example was this past week, when I was slowly trudging up the hill to my house, explaining to a student once again that I wasn't going to leave him my computer when I leave, nor my Ipod, and no, not all Americans are rich. It was getting tiring; the smiles and friendly gestures from this kid had been replaced by constant requests for electronics or food. He used to be my favorite, until he called me a bitch. But the point is that I was feeling a little disheartened, and more than a bit disrespected.

About halfway to my house, we noticed a little piglet standing in the street. Patrick, my student, asked me if it was mine, which of course it was not, and a few steps later the piglet noticed us coming. There was a brief moment of panic and it started to run in different directions to find which way to go. At this section of cobblestone street there are high walls to either side, and it couldn't duck into the crispy tall grass that has yellowed along the sides of most stretches of road. It turned around to run away from us, and I realized that its front and hind legs on the left side had been tied together to keep it in place, which evidently didn't do the trick. So the best it really accomplished was a ridiculous lopsided sprint.

As we continued up the hill, looking around to see who it could belong to, I saw my friend Junior running down the length of the wall on my right side. He disappeared for a moment and I wondered if he was out for a jog or if he even knew about the lost piglet in the road, when all of a sudden he burst out from the bushes and landed a few feet below in the middle of the street. Both he and the piglet paused for a brief second and locked eyes before the piglet turned toward us and hobbled past with a frantic squeal. Junior took off after it. The piglet started swerving in all directions to try to outmaneuver him, and after a few failed attempts to catch it, Junior jumped over the animal, landing on his left foot and simultaneously reaching back to tap it with his right in a perfect stop that would make Benfica proud.

Of course, Patrick and I had stopped to watch all of this. We were close enough to have been considered involved in the chaos but neither Junior nor the piglet seemed to notice us. The piglet stayed in the patch of grass he'd been stopped in and, victorious, Junior picked up the little pig by the front legs and stopped for quick greeting and kiss on the cheeks before heroically returning the lost livestock to an elderly woman who was still gushing her gratitude as Patrick and I turned the corner. It caught me completely off guard. As soon as I feel as though I "get used to" this place, something happens that I can almost not even react to it's so absurd, and I remember where I am.

I've been taking more notice of the strange little things that knock me on my ass and place me back on my little isolated island when I've allowed myself to forget where I am: an epic piglet chase, sitting on a rock heated by the sun and shelling peanuts with a friend, stumbling on a fisherman friend fishing from the divider of a road and stopping for a moment just to talk, long Hiace rides crammed between a fish lady and a young mother with her child. The part that really strikes me is that now I have the weird passive, float-away-from-reality experience about the life I used to have, and when I find myself whirling back to reality, I find myself ending up grounded in the place that I used to dream of going to. That part is still surreal.

Grand Tour

Hi lovelies,

I received a care package recently and it made me wish I could show all of you how much I appreciate everything you do from me from the States. And then I realized...I can show you! So I did a video tour of my site in Ponta Verde which I've put on Youtube for you to see. It's not the best tour in the world (partially because my video cut out in the end), but you'll have to come visit to see for yourself :)

Take a look:



All of my love xoxox

Renaming and rethinking

The title of a blog is deceivingly difficult to come up with. You want to decide on something that explains what you're all about and give a concise explanation of why this forum of opinions exists to begin with. At the same time, you don't want to take yourself too seriously, it's just a blog. So up until now, this has just been "Rachel in Africa." Straightforward.

But most of what I write about here is a reflection of what this process is to me. So, after a few months of settling in and recognizing what these two years are truly going to mean to me, and realizing that they won't be what I expected, I decided that my collection of thoughts needed a change. And so, with a quotation in mind from author Mark Jenkins, I've realized that all of these moments can be summed up in the way that my art-inflicted mind has always seen them: as little splashes of color.


“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

Photo update

Just a few highlights: beautiful sunsets, experiments with the camera and new baby chicks!