Cabo Verde: São Vicente, Santo Antão and São Nicolau June/July 2015

CABO VERDE,  Part 2

Santo Antão

I am sitting alone on a mountaintop at 1400m altitude on the green volcanic island of Santo Antão, the westernmost island of the Cabo Verde archipelago.  I am on Day Three of a Solstice Vision Quest.  Great Spirit led me here with ease.  Needed some downtime close to and in Nature, quiet time to work through some recent issues that were sitting restlessly in my Mind and in my Heart.  For these times I need several undisturbed hours alone, far from human sounds, to sit with Creator and see my Self, honestly.  To understand situations honestly and clearly, free of ego.  To understand what my part is, where I fucked up and strayed from Love, Honesty, Goodness and Truth, if only but for a moment of greed.  Everything that creates disturbance in ourselves comes from a detour.  Just one detour, a quick one even, noone will see we think, especially if I pretend not to see, not to feel the pang in my Heart, the halted breathing when I take a not-Right Action to benefit myself, or so I think. What results is always ultimately another lesson, again.  Great Spirit is such a generous Teacher, always there watching and helping us to become greater Human Beings and Doings.  Ideally the lessons are learned quicker, but it all depends on our Pain and Discomfort tolerance.  If you are in the midst of a Vision Quest and fasting, tolerance is minimal.  Desire for Peace and Love is strong.  Desire for Change is strong.  For living in a Peaceful Mind, Heart, Spirit, Soul and thus, Body.  What should I have not done and what should I have done and when?  Where was the originating point of this mess?  Ahhhh, yes.  There it is. I was aware of something that I did not want to have to pay and asked the other in a way that was not clear and rather dubious.  If I had stopped for a pause there, before pressing the “Send” button, and connected with Creator and Love and Peace, as I will next time, I may have edited my message to be crystal clear, fearless of the answer.  Six days later and many back and forth messages with greater and greater misunderstandings and reactions because, in review, both parties have been playing with not-Right Actions and hoping to not be found out…Disturbance abounds on both sides.  When things turn out this way there can only be a message from yonder.  These two Souls came together to learn, even if for but this one event.  We are momentary Soulmates, Amaury and I.  We have never even met.  It’s an internet learning moment and those can be frustrating with all the additional room for confusion, let alone cultural differences.  While it all started out with generosity and kindness and good intentions which were well-received, there was a small red flag of impatience at too many questions at the start, and some confusion.  Then came the moment where a fact was conveniently ignored on both sides.  That was the source of the descent into the hell of defensiveness, sarcasm, aggressiveness, guilt, fear, and a written angry outburst.  Phew the steam is finally set free and underlying feelings are revealed.  Tension dissipates and the white flag is waved.  No more.  Done.

And so I came up the mountain to sit and see what was really going on, what really happened, what my part was and set things clear for the future.  Three hours later, of talking with Creator, being quiet and llistening, I am clear and peaceful.  Hoping the other party is too.  Praying for him and me to move to the next level of our evolution.

Today happens to be the Festival of St. John the Baptist.  Being Jewish, I of course cannot relate to the big fanfare around carrying the image  of the Saint around town and playing the drums, dancing and singing in his honor.  It is the biggest holiday for this normally mellow rural island and I coincidentally happen to be coming over at the high time of preparation and festivities.  For me I am also celebrating my Spiritual Quest to be more God-like, alone in Nature and so am steering clear of the romping crowds in the capital of Porto Novo, whence I came from 2 days ago.  Yesterday the traditional large round parade-style drums that hang from one arm and are rolled military-like with two shaved branches for drumsticks began coming out of the closets.  Old and young were getting their drumrolls in gear for the bigtime festival where the whole island converges.  In the tiny village of Espongeiro where Alain and Lucie are boarding me, the drummers started  their wake-up calls at 6am this morning, June 24th, before heading to the “city” in a bright red “aluguer”, the pick-up trucks outfitted with two wooden benches and a roofrack that navigate the island keeping everyone alive.  Two proud Cabo Verdians, dressed up in their “nice” button-down shirts and puffy jeans cinched in with leather belts, happily jump into the aluguer to celebrate the big day wih their island brethren from all points of Santo Antão.  A future 2-year old drummer is  walking around with envy playing on an empty plastic oil bottle and actually looking born to drum.  His head cocks to one side with full concentration as he beats his bottle.  A little man-in-the-making he is preparing for his future place in the lineup.

Alain is a 49 year-old French adventurer who has opted to settle in this mountaintop village and create a sweet set-up for hosting trekkers and travellers intent on chilling and discovering the the innards of Santo Antão by foot.  His guesthouse stands alone like the castle of the town, rising above the other houses in height and stature.  He has built it on a steep hillside ensuring his personal water catchment supply from all sources, including the road, in a monster concrete underground cistern.  He lives well here earning his income from foreigners and as such is the makeshift chief of the village.  A good-looking able-bodied northern Frenchman sporting a silver hoop in one ear, his energy is bit nervous and intense, perhaps because he is taking off with his family for three days and leaving a total stranger, me, with Dora the Boer canine, in charge of his homestead.  He is clearly a strict guy, controlling and knows it all.  It is no surprise we have the same birthday.  While he tells me he doesn’t “believe” in astrology, he also flaunts a few phrases that tell me he has studied it well.  When I ask him if he is an Aries by any chance, a gut feeling from his energy, what he has accomplished here and his aggressive demeanor bordering on rudeness, he quickly retorts “NO! I am the total other end, the last week of the last sign!” even though you would never guess it.  I immediately knew we had the same birthday, which surprised him.  We immediately relaxed into kinship.

He set me up with 10 litres of mountain spring water for my fast and a sweet room with a giant window overlooking a pine forest ridge and mountain silhouettes beyond.  I was in big awe of my fortune to have not only gotten a room for a low 10 Euros a night (after explaining my budgetary constraints), but the whole place to myself for the next three days of my Vision Quest and Fast.  Everything kind of came together organically.  When he told me of the situation a few days before over the internet, I knew Creator was offering me time to retreat and go inside.  Luckily I was awake to the gift.  Alain would be locking up the kitchen and no food was available and I had not brought any, save for lemons and chia seeds for my water.  I am grateful.

After my mountaintop sit this morning, I scrambled along goat/cow trails back to the village to take my 3rd nap in three days.  Unfortunately one young boy has been rolling his mini drum every 30 seconds since I got back and despite the ear plugs, pillow around my ears and shut windows, quiet is not possible on the outside.  Were I to say something on one of the few days of the year they pull out the drums, I would feel too much like my Mother.  I will let go into acceptance and pray to fall asleep.  I do.  And when I wake up I am amazed that I have slept through the 30-second interval drum rolls which still go on for another hour as I am writing.  This would never fly in the Western world.  He or his parents would have received a $500 ticket for being a public nuisance.  They are lucky to be in Cabo Verde, Africa, where such things are non-existent.  Quietude is not valued here.  Why?  Life is about being with others, chatting, doing each others’ hair, sitting, watching, doing nothing….but not alone and not quietly.  Ahhhhh, cultural differences.  I wonder how Alain deals with it.  He rules the roost here, and the village, so I guess he does not subjugate himself to anything.

One sweet thing here is that the local village chatter, which funnels into my north-facing window, dies down around 8:30 and then comes the most silent silence I have “heard” since the beginning of my journey.  With my giant windows open wide I am partially outside.  Tonight I will sleep totally outside, back at my mountaintop.  The whole way up the mountain flank is carved into horizontal swales for capting water for the trees I suppose, their only source for wood and a technique for preventing erosion.  They have carved all vertical slopes this way and it makes good sense.  The cool thing is that these elongated depressions make for excellent “beds”.  Padded with pine needle duff, I look forward to choosing my sleeping quarters for the night.  For now, I will take Dora the giant Boer out for a long walk.

Day 4 of my Vision Quest and living in this tiny-ass 10-house village Espongeiro.  Sound like a name for the person who makes sponges.  Still don’t know what it means.  Alain and his family have me trapped here as today is the day they are supposed to start feeding me and it is 1:30PM and they are still not back.  He has my passport locked away in case I run away with the keys???  Or without paying???  I am too weak to run away anyway.  I am getting to know a few local faces and they me.  They must wonder what I am doing when I walk up the mountain without coming back for hours.  Or maybe not.  They might not think that far. 

One of the facts of settling down in the “Third World” countries is that you definitely get dumber in terms of mental acuity, memory, knowledge and intellectual prowess.  I really feel the difference after living here for only three months.  At first it is a breath of fresh air, a welcoming change, a beautiful yin to the yang of the “North”.  You feel like you could stay forever.  Your mind is winding down and your neuroses and stresses dissolving away. (Unless your my Mom who just carries them with her wherever she goes regardless of the Hemisphere she is in and vaccinates all who come within 10 feet of her energy field.)  Then, after a few weeks, you find yourself getting annoyed, impatient and short with these sweet exotic friends you have made.  You find yourself ridiculing them in your head, in disbelief of the existence of such ignorance and naiveté.  You tell yourself, “No wonder these countries ain’t goin’ anywhere. People can’t think beyond the moment, can’t put their garbage into a bin or a pile, eat the same exact ingredients every day of their lives even if I have seen others for sale, have no ambition and are lazy and slow in their actions.”  OK so it’s all pouring out now.  Let them be.  Why should the whole world be American or French or British or German?  Let the lucky ones who were born or raised elsewhere teach their brethren, those who know both sides, both mindsets.  I kind of feel sorry for them as they do not fit in either lifestyle anymore.  But clearly they will prefer the more moneyed one.  The whole thing we learn in the more active, mobile, “advanced” countries about having dreams and goals to manifest, a purpose to live, professions to train for or change, mid-life crises, etc. just do not apply here. 

I love Baye Ass as a person.  But there is no way that I am just gonna take him with me and pay for his life, the way he and others might imagine is the way things go when you have a mature white woman on your arm.  Yes he is a good person and it would be fun to bring him into the “other world” he watches on TV and dreams of, but to be his Sugar Mama just ain’t what I’m about.  I am clear that I am looking for the partner who is equal with me.  A co-creator, co-habitator, co-everything. And yes I would like to live in a tranquil easy-going environment, comfortable and friendly with gastronomic abundance…but it will have to be someplace that is educated and culturally advanced meaning thoughtful and creative, inventive and progressive.  When I think of those qualities in the US I go to northern California, where the eco-and spiritually-conscious communities are concentrated.  Europe, Australia and perhaps Cuba fit the bill too?

The best way to travel for me is to hang in one spot for a minimum of one month.  You get to know the people, the lifestyle and the culture enough to know if you would want to live there or come back.  I have been sitting on this mountaintop at Alain and Lucie’s Casa Espongeiro guest house for 5 days now, three of them alone with Dora.  While I stayed close most of the time for my Vision Quest, I still got to watch all the goings on from my window as their place and my room is positioned smack in the center of the village.  I got to watch the various hair curler sessions, the bean cleaning, the comings and goings of the “collectivo” buses, the children’s behaviours, hear the neighbor have an anger attack at her child (yikes!) and watch the men just sit and watch for hours (they couldn’t see me through the reflective glass). 

This morning was my first energy day after breaking my fast with a gigantic 3 kilo ripe papaya yesterday.  Luckily Alain had been storing it, since all the stores in town had been closed due to post-São João hangovers and all he could find with were highly unappetizing red apples shipped over from Europe.  No thanks.  But the papaya ws a godsend.  Perfect sweetness and local!  Time to activate and agitate my buttocks today and so I donned my cute Roxy pink and red surf shorts (little!), a Praia flea market Israeli tank top and my running shoes, which are becoming more “holey” by the run.  9:30am.  Getting hot already.  Waiting to clear past the “sitting men” at the intersection, I walked for the first few minutes.  Then began my slow, dragging run along a level dirt road into the unknown.  It does smell like California up here, central California and the Sierra foothills I would say.  Pine tree clumps and alot of dry savannah.  What makes it different are the isolated rock and mud buildings, sometimes cement block, and palm or grass thatch roofs sitting all alone here and there.  And the tiny 5-house villages with toothless inhabitants sittin’ around.  No big mansions in the boonies.  No giant trucks or ATVs.  No fully-stocked corner stores.  And of course no ‘mericans.

I prepare for the shocked looks when they notice me.  I see them first.  A white woman, in mini shorts, with nice legs (or so I’ve heard) and a friendly smile, running by.  Why?  Why would someone be running here?  Why get tired just for fun?  What is your purpose?  Are you trying to get somewhere quickly?  Do you not have money for the “colectivo”?  The only one who gets it is the oldest in the bunch.  With one or two teeth left, the elder smiles at me, claps his hands and recognizes why I am running. “Bom para a saúde!  Para limpar!”  “Good for your health!  Good for cleaning!”  It seems the older ones I can relate with better than the younger ones.  They seem more educated, worldly and they speak Portuguese.  What happened to the new generations?

One toothless woman, probably my age, with reddish Afro hair and laden with brown freckles from forehead to neck, is probably a descendant of northern Europeans.  Unfortunately she cannot benefit from those connections anymore.  As I sit and connect on my Iphone every day, just uphill from her home, I see her pass by carrying a large bundle of 2” diameter branches on her head one day, 5 gallons of water on another, and rarely nothing.  She tells me there is no work here, just carrying things around all day.  Her daughter wants to go to school but has no money for the transport, which is about $4 a day.  I am wondering if she is looking at me for a solution to the problem.  I cannot be.  I must focus on completing my work, being there for the boys, and my future home.  Sorry!  I can teach you how to make a beautiful mud plaster for your home though.  Or build an oven.

On my way back I stop in the miniature village once again and decide to chat for a moment as I take a 5-minute break.  I ask them what they eat.  I mention cheese.  Oh yes, goat cheese.  Do they have any?  My luck, Azadee sells it.  She has two 6” diameter round loaves left for 150CVE or $1.50 each.  Sold.  These are the little blessings and joys for me.  Hoping they are hygienic and safe, I enjoy cutting into the fresher one and making little slices on slices of cucumber for an appetizer.  Nice.  The cheese has little airholes inside and is a bit on the tangy side.  Certainly tasty when you’ve been food-free for days.  Give thanks.  The cows it seems dont make any milk here, or not much, cause there’s no grass for them to eat since it did not rain last year.  The whole island lives artificially through the good Grace of the colectivos who move everyone and everything around every day.  Furniture, food, animals, water and people come up the hill from Porto Novo and Ribeira Grande each day and other things and people go down to the sea.  Only half an hour in either direction.  Without the petrol?  Donkey, feet, bicycles?

Five-Hour Trek down to Figueiral

Sucky shoes do not make for a most enjoyable hike especially on a rock-encrusted and cobblestone path which, no matter how beautiful to look at, kills the feet.  No way around it!  I have never had foot issues and after months of wearing Hawaiianas, Moroccan slipper shoes and running shoes…my feet are done.  The concrete feels like a sledgehammer banging on my feet with each step, no give at all, and the cobblestone rocks are not any better, plus they come in all shapes and sizes making for a constant surprise.  In addition you are needing to look down the whole way and stop walking to enjoy the sights.  Today’s downhill trek for five hours was good enough for me.  I’ll go uphill and hitch a ride down for the others.

That being said, and all the complaining behind me, it was one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever walked through in all of my travels.  The “ribeiras” are deeply cut valleys with pretty steep slopes that still do not inhibit the denizens of this island from terracing every possible available piece of land, even the rock faces, each one planted with forage for the animals, fruit trees or other types of non-recognizable plants in addition to the usual manioc and beans and corn.  You have to wonder how the hell they stood on that slope to work it and how far away they have to come from to get there and use it.  As you can imagine these areas are only accessible by foot and donkey.  Of course going through it once I was delighting in the beauty each step of the way, admiring all the terracing and stone dwellings and when I got to the bottom, the banana, mango and papaya groves.  I saw nary a Soul.  The ones I did see were making their way up with their cows or donkeys or carrying an immense pile of some kind of long grass for their animals at the top.  I also came upon two handsome young men taking a break from improving the path, basking in the National Geographic view below and around them.  One with his NYC wool cap on and the other with his double diamond earrings, adorable and proud of working hard for their brethren.  They recognized the importance for their health of laboring up and down these paths every day.  I’m sorry but in comparison, we “Northerners” are pussies.  We get into cars to go to stores that have everything we need all of the time.  We do not suffer much to take care of our needs.  We lead over-priced lives that we work way too many hours to pay for.  We enjoy our gadgets and things we can afford for working all those hours, at the cost of the health-giving benefits of going slower and taking time to naturally relax with family and friends. We have more money and stuff, but we are dying of cancer and heart attacks right and left.  Most people have some kind of chronic health dysfunction due to lack of true self-care. It’s a strange contrast, the two lifestyles.  I make an effort to explain this to the locals many of whom complain about no work, no money…just so they have a balanced picture of things and can appreciate their beautiful environment.

One thing I will theorize is that no matter how poor, people living in a beautiful place, surrounded by friends and loved ones, are peaceful.  There are no assaults or thefts here like on the other islands, despite the large number of tourists walking unprotected and vulnerable on rural paths for hours.  Any locals could easily hide out, assault them and run away.  Though they would be very visible for a while, needing to run on the rock path either up or down, they would then with difficulty remove themselves from eyesight.  Thus it is not ideal.  Besides it’s just not in the air on this island. 

A Week Later in Vale de Paúl

Well well well, I’ve had my share of “people” learning this last week.  This is one of my biggest growth opportunities as I move through space and cultures.  I am meeting and hanging out with, intentionally or not, alot of friggin’ people.  I am creating relationships, even if only for a few days or a week, with each step of the way.  Relationships with the people who host me, feed me, have an interest in me, work with me, learn with me, register for my workshops, want to hire me, love me, hate me, etc…  While the relationships are more in your face and demanding of deeper work when you live in one place…I am getting more variety and breadth, requiring more adaptability, creativity and openness to not “getting” it right away.  Thankful for my decent language skills I have a chance of learning more, as does the other.

I left Alain and his mountaintop concentration camp speechless.  The last 12 hours were without words as the last exchange was the straw, the drop, the “If you say one more word I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” and thus silence reigned.  Dinner, which I would not have eaten had I not been hungry, was a bowl of OK lentil soup with ginger that his wife/slave Lucie had made.  For the first time since I can remember I was REALLY angry and done with this lunatic.  Sadly we have the same birthday day, of which I only know 3-4 other people, for which I am not too proud.  At first I saw some similarities and then it was just, NO.  Plain baggage and personal mental/emotional/social dysfunction that this 49-year old has just not dealt with and thus spews on everyone else.  For some reason that may be my initial friendliness and familiarity being the same age, born on the same day, perhaps same type…he felt utterly free to scold me, address me aggressively and rudely, ignore me and all in all constantly behave disrespectfully.  I should have left the first day, when I took the “wrong” aluguer bus up because the first one took off before I even got out of the ferry terminal, and he scolded me for taking too long to get out.  Right then and there I should have left.  I was surprised/shocked but decided to give him a chance, especially seeing the cute place he had with a gorgeous mountain view, and that he and the family were all leaving for three days.  I was to have it all to myself for a 3 day Vision Quest.  Fresh mountain water, quietude, solitude, etc.

Following the Quest, the three days of his presence were quite uncomfortable every time he was around.  Bing! My mother.  The same energy as Yvonne.  And my sister Jackie. That horrible feeling of never knowing what is going to come out of their mouths, what you might be doing wrong, what mood they are in, how they will respond.  There is always something.  Fear of saying something that will tick them off.  An ADD-afflicted being who pours their crap out on the Souls around them, especially the quiet by-standers, the ones who are moving about their business peacefully.  We are almost like triggers for them, mirrors, reflecting their opposite state of being which is restless, unsatisfied, angry, disturbed, deeply pained and unwilling to stop and feel/look/be.  That is a tough one for me, it still touches and triggers me as well.  Why?  Was I like that once? I don’t think I am now.  However around my boys I can feel that way, as they are observing me.  I was not however observing him, though I was trying my best to befriend him, converse, pick his brain, etc.  Too hard.  I should have kept to myself and used the term “vous” the whole time, the French term of address implying distance and respect.  That was my mistake.  And it was also my mistake with Amaury the other Frenchman I eventually fell out with.  Stay with “vous”, keep a business-like and polite distance, no intimacy right off like I am so apt to do.  Baye Ass noticed that and critiqued it…that I am too friendly too quickly without even knowing anything about the person.  I agree.  While the last twelve hours I was “done”, I should have left right when they returned and he began being rude and brute-like again.  Why do I tolerate and accept this behavior?   What part of me stays for more?  What part of me thinks I can change or solve it?   I even went so far as to apologize for pestering him about the horrid gasoline smell that was invading the whole place, to which he had reacted by telling me in a very sarcastic tone, “Well, SOOOOrry that your nose is suffering.  It’s just the way it is so deal with it.”  Never again.  However his immature and crazy behavior would not go unnoted in the realm of internet reviews.  It is my duty to alert others for their own protection, and hopefully alert him to the consequences of his actions.  Upon leaving the village, I shared my story with Maria who confrmed his problems with others, including her husband who had worked for him and walked.  His own partner Lucie had clearly been through this before and suggested I talk with him.  After some thought, I decided it was definitely not my business to support this man’s personal work actively, especially when not requested.  I would simply respond and that would be enough.

Ponta Do Sol: A DIfferent Energy and a New Lover

Ahhhhh, a welcome change of pace from the mountains.  Ocean, fishermen, cliffs, people, music, color and a small bustling town.  Yeah for change and contrast.  After a long wait at the top, just around the corner from crazy Alain’s sight as he packed his fat Toyota pickup for his Sunday family outing away from their mountain “jail”…I am finally picked up by an overweight sunburnt Canadian couple in a tiny toy-like jeep that rattles along the cobblestone road, much like my small-wheeled Bike Friday would be had I ignored the warnings of the poor difficult roads in Santo Antão.  I surely don’t mind the “difficult” part, but I can’t stand the rattling mile after mile.  Aside from being loaded with stuff, the clanging metal water bottles in their metal cages becomes deafening after not too long.  I have been bike-less for two months now, going on 12 weeks when I finally get it back under me in Sal.  I don’t like it. I feel fatter and lazier and I can’t seem to lose these 5-10 pounds of bulge, especially my lower belly and the darn new belly wrinkle arched over my bellybutton like a half moon.  When I’m biking 5 hours a day I can eat anything and I look and feel great all the time.  I wake up hungry even after a big dinner and right to bed.  Everything is quickly digested.  I love it.  Bike-less I am doing alot more sitting on boats, in cars, buses, taxis, etc and have to run or swim to make up for the lack of exercise. And there sure isn’t the “push” of having to climb mountains NOW lest I not reach my destination before dark. 

Ponta do Sol (which means “Sunpoint”) is the north end of this rhomboid island and does really stick out like a point.  It is a vast plain that reaches from the mountains to the ocean where all the buildings stand, most of them waiting for renters and inhabitants and many of them unfinished.  Big concrete jails, institutions made of grey blocks, grey mortar and rusty rebar, and depressing to see, especially on this beautiful land.  I walk right to the water’s edge despite efforts to sway me this way and that to rent a room at Kalima do Sol, or Ponta Arte or whoever’s aunt’s place or brother’s place we happen to be passing.  I am clear I want to be right on the water and will not stop to collect $200 or on “Go”!  Besides my room at Fatima’s has my name on it.  I get her down to $18 a night with no breakfast.  Hell I’m right on the ocean with a terrace view of the “port”, the beach landing where all the fishermen come in.  Sadly despite my passion for the ocean and swimming in it, there is so much detritus, natural and unnatural, all over the rocks and the beach at the water’s edge that it totally grosses me out to swim here, and really anywhere where people live.  They dump their garbage over the cliffs and it sits on the rocks  over the ocean following the other already-swimming pools of garbage.  Everything from diapers to carburetors to motherboards to broken plastic things to human feces, dead animals, leftover food, clothing and all the plastic bags and wrappers you can imagine.  There is no respect for nature except what it can provide for them.  And there is no respect for animals.  I am so sick of seeing donkeys, cows, horses, chickens and dogs on tiny leashes that get all tangled up.  They are yelping for attention, for water, for food, for freedom.  Why not carry around quick set-up fences wherever you leave your animal?  The other day I freed a molting chicken whose leg had been injured from being attached tightly with a rope to a piece of wood. She was probably madly trying to get away from the crazy dog that was attacking her sister who, unfortunately, got tortured to death while tied on a leash as well.  I have a mind to free all those tied-up animals which may get me incarcerated as everyone knows everything that everyone is doing on this island.  There is ALWAYS someone watching you.  Even as I trekked up this crazy steep mountain way above all the houses, I know someone was watching me.  They have really good eyesight and hearing since they need to spot and hear each other from across valleys and villages.  I am fascinated by their whistling and yelping skills, done just so that it’s almost a sound language in itself, with no need for words.

But I digress a little.  In Ponta do Sol I met the handsome, well-built, native French-speaking Cabo Verdian Arlindo.  He was damn “lindo” with his mustard-brown eyes, sweet smile and tough fisherman body.  He did one of those “sweep you off your feet” in minutes acts that I can too easily fall for since it replicates my quick energy.  He spotted me from his fishing boat as he was taking his parents for a ride…and then recognized me in a music café that night.  I sat alone and ate dinner, listening to the live music, when he walked in, grogue in hand.  He did a double take, smiled at me, left, came back, looked again, left, came back a third time, and asked if he could join me.  High energy, excitement, conversation, flirting, all that comfortable familiar process that is really my red flag but since I am travelling and love the newness of each day, it doesn’t come up as easily.  He swooped me up for some tight-bodied local-style dancing which allowed us to feel each other’s rhythms out. Good harmonics, a Pisces (oh oh, so was the crazy French madman on the mountain!)…the rest of the night was one big makeout session which, I am very PROUD to say, did NOT end up in bed!  He could not stop kissing me, hugging me, touching me, smiling and telling me he was in love.  I guess it’s just fun, though a bit ridiculous, but at the same time…you never know!  Nevertheless, I had a great few days with Arlindo, a good communicator, though the grogue and the intense infatuation wore off the next morning, thank the Goddess.  We basically hung out as friends and as soon as night came on and he had his first grogue, the energy changed again, though never quite like the first night.  I think he knew he wasn’t gonna “get” me in bed like the others perhaps, and so the excitement of the potential died.  He was very kind and helpful and I guess there is also the factor of knowing I was leaving shortly and would probably never return so…what the fuck!  What the fuck for me too.  He was a good family man with respect for mother and father which I liked, and solo parenting three teens, which I liked.  He fished every morning at 5am, baked bread, carried firewood down the mountain for three hours, led people on treks though the island and did other jobs too.  I appreciated him, though he stopped communicating once I left.

My most memorable and also UTI-causing day of long-distance running and dehydration were the four hours I ran along the mountainside cobblestone road to the village of Fontainhas, one of the most spectacular jaw-dropping sites I’ve ever seen.  A small brightly-colored village sits all alone on this skinny solo ridge that pops up in the middle of the valley.  Enclosed and with its own private black sand beach, it maintains itself with all the terraced gardens below growing papayas, bananas, mangoes, manioc, sweet potato and ignam.  Green green green below and brown rock above.  Only a few miles from Ponta do Sol though around several winding corners so with no sight or sound of it.  The people were listening to the radio, playing cards, cleaning, cooking, whatever.  There is a driveable bumpy road but surely walking it is faster. 

I am sure all the villagers are so used to the tourists arriving slowly by foot, shooting endless photos from all the different angles in the hopes of succeeding in representing this experience authentically.  As I arrived in my running bra and short pink Reef shorts (again), I drew some but not much attention.  I guess it gets boring for them.  I perused through the tiny streets, passed some blaring good Cabo Verdian reggae sounds, met a young child who insisted I see his home all the way at the top of the village, and then some dreadlocked local who showed me the way down to what looked like a jewel of a beach.  I continued past the village wanting to get to the next “top” to see what lay on the other side despite the intimidating unending climb.  I was really pushing myself, which I like to do, however I also had no water with me.  I figured water was not too far off so I traipsed down to the beach walking long the water canal the whole way down, terrace by terrace filled with something edible (when cooked), until I got to the black sand and rock 100-foot wide protected beach.  I would have stripped but there was one lone fisherman there and though Santo Antão is truly crime-free, I am still on my guard.  I went in but even this tiny little cove beach was intimidating with its big waves.  New beaches garner my respect.

Then, I decided to trailblaze up the steep mountainside to find a shortcut back and avoid repeating my steps.  As I started bushwacking up the rock and tall weed-covered slope, the fisherman from the beach yelled out warning me not to go that way, but I proudly kept on after my lengthy visual study of the possible path of which, I have to admit, I was not 100% sure.  Stubborn as I am to not back down before the endless fear-based warnings people love to give, I started the rock scramble wishing my eldest son Viva was with me.  Viva is a Capricorn, a mountain goat, and is the most trustworthy natural outdoorsman I feel safe doing scary physical adventures with.  He is so solid in his body and his knowing of what is possible and doable, that I don’t even question his decisions.  Nevertheless it looked like at least the first 3/4 of this climb was reasonably clearcut.  As I passed the rocks into a steeper terrain with small sturdy trees, I was grateful for their trunks which became my safety holds up a very shifty ground base.  I looked down.  It was a ways to the bottom but doable.  Last resort would be climbing back down to the valley floor.

I was getting closer to the ridgetop I had scoped from below, the spot from which the question mark started as to how easy or hard it would be to join the road.  It was pretty hard to tell from 200 feet below, how steep the final climb would need to be.  When I scrambled the last scary 20 feet to the top of the ridge, and took a good look at my one option, and a good look under it in case I slipped….I got real quickly and decided I wanted to see my boys again.    It was probably doable, especially if that path I saw was a human one, but then again these island denizens are all a bit goat-like.  They have terraced every possible slope on this island, sometimes in ridiculously dangerous-looking vertical rocky spots.  I must commend their valor and gumption for maximizing the agricultural potential of Santo Antão so fully. 

This island is special.  I have been here for almost three weeks and each of my Facebook posts states the same thing:  “I have found yet another outrageously beautiful spot.”  I do not cease to be amazed by the natural beauty, yes, and also by the people who, because of their duty to climb and descend, and work hard to grow their food and fish, are strong physically and spiritually.  What I REALLY like is that this is the SAFEST island, meaning people just don’t steal, assault or bother you.  They are friendly, but not overtly like in Senegal.  They keep to themselves, do their thing, are happy to help, but you are NOT the center of their world.  That is a welcome relief for a foreigner for a change, especially after hanging out in Senegal, but also even with regard to the other Cabo Verdian islands I have been on, where you need eyes on the back of your head at all times.  Why is this island different?  More independent?  More food?  Happier life?  More self-confidence?  More pride?  I guess it will take longer than 3 weeks to figure that out.

Fisherman LIfe

I have become quite conneted to the life of the fisherman here in Cabo Verde but in particular here in Ponta do Sol, especially through Arlindo.  He wakes to go fishing at 5am daily unless he has a guide job or has to make bread in which case he is up at 3am.  He is 2nd or 3rd to pull out his blue and white-striped wooden boat called “Tristar”, with his partner, and go out for anywhere from 5 to 9 hours depending on the productivity.  He is out to feed his family and make money and the ocean is generous here.  The fish just keep coming, in all shapes and sizes, in particular tuna.  The other day they were divying up the biggest manta ray I have ever seen…500 pounds.  I remember being in Tahiti and feeding the rays which were very affectionate, sliding up my body like a dog, asking for snacks.  I felt sad that this giant specimen, so wise and gentle, had to be removed from the ocean to feed the village for one night.  It had lived for so long, survived so many fishing lines and tempting lures…what was different this time?  Lifting the hundreds of pounds of thick rubbery outer layer to access the other side and cut into the red flesh took half a dozen men who looked minuscule in comparison.  These islanders get 90% of their protein from the sea.  I have been eating fish almost every single day myself.  Super fresh, tasty, simple, grilled, unlike the greasy preparations in Senegal.  I appreciate all the fish, but worry about the fish population and also the mercury and other heavy metals they are said to concentrate in their flesh.  Staying with smaller varieties like sardines and mackerel are said to be safer.  How to know.  I sure feel tired alot here, mentally tired too, but is it the heavy humid heat or the mercury or some other festering illness like worms, malaria, or a parasite?

The ocean looks so good from afar but to tell you the truth, unless it’s on an uninhabited naturally clean coast with no garbage accumulated on the beach and not in the path of garbage currents…I’m too grossed out to go in.  Fish remains, poop, garbage, plastic bags and the usual detritus floating around me or even under me really takes away my desire to jump in.  Not so for the locals.  Good for them I guess but bad for the ocean.  Arlindo took me to a black sand Beach, Playa de Lisboa, that was only reachable by a scary ledge walk along the cliffs for 20 minutes.  Excited to swim in clean waters away from the town, I was distraught by the strong poop stench as I approached the attractive-looking waves. I asked him about it and could not get myself to disregard the smell in order to enjoy the ocean.  He said it was probably the pig hotel that was located just above the cliffs, the poop smell wafting on the wind in my direction.  That made me feel better yet I wondered where they dumped the pig poop.  You see, everyone keeps their pigs in these small rock-walled enclosures with partial straw rooves for shade.  The pigs all hear each other but sadly cannot get a leg up to see each other let alone escape.  They just wallow in their cells, getting fatter until their death day.  What a life!  Some are lucky and get to share the space with 1 or 2 others, and if they’re really lucky a mate of the opposite sex.  The other day I heard some “barulho” as I walked by a pig motel and saw a female hungrily humping another larger female, who just stood and “took” it.  I guess they were both in heat and enjoyed the friction.

On the positive side I had one positive animal experience in Ponta do Sol in which I got to witness a dog family “in the wild”, meaning they didn’t belong to anyone, though they lived on the street.  But there was the mom, with 9 or so adorable bouncy-tailed pups of all colors and designs, and she was clearly being supported by two males, maybe both the dads.  I just learned that a female in heat can last a week in which she can be fertilized by many males.  So there they all were, like street people, roaming around their neighborhood, with a designated “home”, a big pile of cozy dried palm-leaf bedding with various tossed-out items like fishing nets, cardboard, clothing, etc that became instant tug-of-war toys.  Everyone seemed healthy and happy and well-fed.  Even Mom, with all the pups tugging at her boobs, calmly pulled herself away to move about her business.  It was a joyful reassuring sight.

Ponta do Sol  is really complete after 3-4 days…after that you are either truly relaxing in your hotel room or going on fishing adventures.  There are only two treks from there and really not much else going on.  I headed to the famous Vale de Paúl on Thursday, staying that long just to get more time with Arlindo who I had a fondness for, the way gentle giving Pisces with an addiction get to your soft spot.  He really took care of me and was there for me and I saw how hard he worked to be there for his kids, his siblings and his parents as well. 

The Paúl Valley is renowned for its great green and lush beauty as people hike down it from the Cova (Crater) de Paúl at the top.  The downhill hairpin cobblestone path is horrendous on the feet.  The knees too but they aren’t my weak spot.  I can’t stand those cobblestones and needing to break with every step.  The path was buit right up against the cliff clearly with great audacity and courage…no idea how.  The valley is full of lively villages lining the riverbed which is their giant Garden of Eden.  Manioc, sweet potato, ignam and papaya and banana trees everywhere.  So lush.  And then, when the rains come in August and September, I guess they harvest it all out. 

I took two crazily difficult uphill hikes while on this coast of Santo Antão.  One day I walked three hours up to Santa Isabela.  I wanted a good workout and to go somewhere off the usual tourist track so I followed the thin red line on the map and with some local guidance, got on the only trail up.  I was alone most of the way until I caught up to a young athletic male who was carrying two large backpacks on his back and two 2-gallon plastic bottles of grogue, the local sugarcane rum the island is known for.  He was from Santa Isabela and was on his way up for the annual festival of the Saint, in which people flock in from all over the island, long hours by foot, with babies and kids in tow, booze, food, sleeping bags, boomboxes, drums, whatever it takes for the party to go on all weekend.  I smiled at the Heavens because, once again, I am in the place where the party is happening, by accident.

Unbelieving of the never-ending quantity of hairpin turns getting tighter and tighter as we neared the top…I felt bad for my trekking mate with his bottles of booze but I could in no way offer a helping hand or I would have made it up in worse condition than I already was.  I tried to stay positive due the health benefits I was receiving from this hamstring and cardio workout.  FInally, despite all the clouds, I could make out a house and more importantly, voices.  Voices laughing and chatting from within the cloud bank, people happily banging the drums, male voices yelling across the plateau, and all invisible and hidden in the mist.  I must say I was thrilled.  So high up, so far away from “town”, and everyone is having a geat time and couldn’t care less about anywhere else or what they could be missing.  Like another planet, there were no sounds of anything except animals and people.  The whole idea is kind of fun I would say…like an island all by itself on this mountain ridge.  Clearly it worked for them, contrary to what outsiders might think. 

As I stood there alone at the top, hidden to others, I enjoyed spying unbeknownst to them.  My poor young hiking partner was left behind, pausing every hairpin turn, dripping with sweat, but this was no new journey for him.  He had grown up in Santa Isabella and was coming home.  The vertical journey was probably just a minor inconvenience, which is why I did not feel too bad trudging forward. 

There was nothing to photograph but clouds and a glimpse below of two women cornrowing a frustrated young girl’s head, for the celebration.  Visions of men began appearing in the breaks between clouds.  People walking uphill with goods, carousing joyfully towards what looked like the only significant and concrete building in the village.  Suddenly the rolling drums began again, always the same rolling beat for every occasion, a sort of parade march.  Four young men followed the drummer, clapping and dancing to the beat, down the ridge towards me.  Yes, I finally had a video subject.  It took three minutes of filming clouds and drumming and voices in the distance behind the little mountain outcrop separating us before the faces and bodies appeared.  They walked right towards me, proudly representing their village’s occasion, and when they got to me, began the traditional SonJon dance, the only traditional dance I ever saw here on the island.  Basically they take two steps towards each other, to the drum beat, and bump pelvises and then two steps away and then two steps towards each other and bump hips and then two steps back and then back together to bump the other hips, etc.  The steps are bouncy, with handclaps and very rhythmically united to the drum.  It’s very simple, a bit sensual, and looks like they have a whole lot of fun with it and could go on and on all night, high on grogue.  These boys spent several minutes showing off for my Iphone camera with no reserve whatsoever.  Clearly I am not the first tourist passing by.

Being the lone white chica who had, by chance, arrived right as the party was getting organized, I drew ALOT of attention, especially from all the men.  There were only two women to be seen, though I was told others would be appearing at dusk.  So many men walking in and out of the school building, checking me out in my sweaty shorts and tank and hairy legs and dirty hair.  I surely was not prepared to party and much to their dismay, took off again to continue my hike to the top.  Excited to move on and make it to “Pico da Cruz” with enough time to then find a ride to “Cova de Paúl”, the green crater at the top, and then hike back down the “magnificent Vale de Paúl”, I gathered my energy after a pretty poor snack of stale bread, mushy tomatoes and rubbery goat cheese that looked delectable to all the onlookers.

I continued on the trail, passing more and more partiers who were wondering why I was leaving the party.  I seem to be always leaving or missing the party though I arrive at the right moment.  Fine with me, too much grogue is my signal to leave.  I walked on through rolling hills with adorable houses, more greenery, quaint corners, donkeys, goats, etc.  Then things turned vertical again and when I got to a top, a bit confusing.  I looked around and decided to keep moving in the direction of the trail I had been on which now, was suddenly going back downhill.  Hmmm, I guessed it was all good but in truth I could have used a compass, with which I would have saved myself the disheartening pain of, after an hour of walking, ending up where I had started with the music blaring even louder now.  I was so embarassed and pissed, because now there was no tunring back as it was getting too late, and I would have to descend that whole steep walk I had come up and that would wreak havoc on my feet, once again.  Way worse going down than going up, for sure.  My toes just slip forward and beat against my running shoes and the blisters hate it.  As do the blisters’ owner.  Nightmare.  Once at the bottom, while there was not much to go, I chose to rockhop along the river bottom making my way through the ignam, manioc, and sweet potato plantations, and banana and papaya forests.  It was quite magical and I wondered how they each kept track of their stuff and was amazed that noone steals.  They are all in it together they know.  Home sweet home. 

A couple of days later after recuperating mentally and physically from the traumatic walk, I decided to go for another one.  I definitely like the challenge of the uphill and decided to head for the most challenging uphill I had heard people talk about.  From the ocean to “Pico de la Cruz”, the highest point on this part of the island, was a 1558 meter (5500 feet) climb.  Once again straight up past Fanjanelas, spread out with a great oceanview from 500 to 1000 feet up, I continued past the final house into the dry, terraced wilderness that suddenly changed to pine trees.  Everyone along the way had only respect and warnings of a looong loooong walk.  Clearly they had all done it before, at some point in their lives, maybe even only once.  Even the 70 or 80-year old pipe-smoking grannies had done it.  The grannies who I too will resemble one day.  The ones noone “looks” at sexually anymore but with respect and affection and adoration.  And they are just fine there reaping the benefits of a lifetime of giving.

Making my way up after a snack stop, better than the previous hike’s, I kept looking at the top which seemed not too far off.  The guys at the bottom where I started had told me it would take 3 to 3 1/2 hours.  I was sure it would be no more than 2. However, that top took a loooong time to come.  I passed long trains of sobering young partiers returning from Santa Isabella, all hiking in flip flops, joyfully heading down and home.  To my relief they all said I was close….well I guess I was closer.  After one hairpin turn a young boy stopped in his tracks and stared at me.  He scared me a little, to the point that I wondered if he was going to jump me.  His eyes were huge, he just kept on staring.  He was holding a bunch of long sticks, was barefoot, and had a small pack on.  He wanted money.  I literally had only enough to get home with a “collectivo” once I got back to  the Vale de Paúl.  His stare of desperation would not let me pass.  Would he attack me?  I had my Iphone, the only thing of value…and then I remembered my piece of goat cheese I had left.  Yes!  I quickly pulled it out and offered it to him and yes he was VERY happy to take it.  He was really grateful and so was I that I had not eaten it.  I was thankful to have something of value to give him.  I scurried off and several hairpin turns later above him, I looked for him and saw him sitting down and savoring the cheese.  He looked up at me and waved his cheese hand at me in gratitude.  Nice.

The rest of the climb became treacherous.  Now my feet were suffering from uphill blisters.  I had walked way too much for my own good.  Every step became a fearful tiring nightmare as I plodded along like Frankenstein, barely feeling any pleasure anymore.  When would this end????  I kept thinking I was at the top and I would round a bend only to find more.  At least it was only 3:30PM.  Those locals at the bottom were beginning to be right…would it really be only another half an hour until I reached the mysterious “Pico da Cruz”?  I played my Iphone music, sang, and basically forced my body to just walk.  When I finally came to an interesection with a real cobblestone road that must have been the yellow line on the map, and passed two young people cowered over under the weight of 5-gallon plastic water canisters, their necks bearing the brunt of the load, I felt a relief.  Cars, a ride, a village, food, water, a beer….were close now.  Still, the road just kept going and winding, passing two sad donkeys tied to a tree with only a few feet of movement possible since their ropes had been twisted up and intertwined with branches.  I was so tempted to set them free, as I did for the chicken who never came back, but was concerned about the consequences for the owners.  Could they not create easy set-up and take-down mobile fencing for their animals that would be more compassionate but still withstand the animal’s  pushing or shoving?  I resorted to only unwinding the rope providing the donkey with some more space again, for which he was very grateful!

At the first sight of a house, a car, people I was so thankful.  I beelined for the only store in Pico da Cruz, slugged down two cans of cold guava drink, bought a third one, and filled my water bottle.  I was feeling pretty desparate as it was 5pm and there were miles to cover, at least 2-3 of which were only walkable.  As it were, my Portuguese and humor got me a companion who was going in the same direction and a truck ride with Teo, an Italian Stallion living on Sal who owned a horse-back riding business for tourists.  Happy to sit my butt down in a car that was getting me 5 miles closer to the end of my journey, next to an adorable smiling and barefoot Italian, I thanked my Protector.  Lucky for me I had waxed legs with my short hot pink Reef shorts, as they were being stared at alot, and perhaps responsible for all the forthcoming support. 

Nathaniel was my Cabo Verdian companion who was hiking back down the other side of the mountain with me, his journey home twice a week.  He is a 28-year old well-built kind of cute grogue business owner.  He produces artisan grogue, hand-made the old way, and sells it to others and to clients through his bar in Pico de la Cruz.  Twice a week he commutes over the mountain to check on his bar and then returns two-three days later.  For him this is a piece of cake and barely felt, even in his flip flops.  HIs usual and faster route home is a really steep goat path that we can detect across the valley.  I think I would have preferred that one to the damn cobblestone hairpi turns once again.  As we round the bend at the start of our walk, we unexpectedly come upon a tall, dark and handsome-looking couple who couldn’t wait to get home to do the love thing or perhaps enjoy the risk of getting “caught” or the thrill of being “seen” or perhaps they just enjoyed this spot.  I have to say it looked quite uncomfortable.  She was lying down on the ground with her legs dangling over the meter-high rock wall she had been sitting on at first, until he  lay down on her, his naked butt visible to passers-by.  What a fun sight!  I do believe I have never in my 51 years seen a couple doin’ it live.  Cabo Verdians really get it on.  Not much else to do I hear.

Nathaniel and I walked another hour of downhill the whole way.  He was extremely sweet and kind but had a very strong bad odor about him, like he hadn’t washed in a few days, and it was quite a turn-off.  He was so polite, too polite, and kept repeating this annoying “uh huh, yeh” at everything I said.  While I appreciated having someone show me the way, I got nothing out of walking with him, at all.  Bo-ring.  Which is why I prefer goin’ it alone most of the time.

When we got to the bottom, it was getting dark and, as usual, I was told it would be “meio difícil” (semi-hard) to find a “colectivo” to get back down to Paúl and my safe haven on the beach.  As usual I just had to trust otherwise and encouraged Nathaniel to get back home to his family and that I would be just fine walking down the road until I found a ride.  Though my feet had recuperated somewhat, probably due to the excitement of being almost finished…walking the 10km back down the valley was of no interest to me at all.  The few colectivos that passed me would only take me down for $10, the taxi rate, which I could not get myself to pay and did not even have.  When I finally landed a driver and convinced him to take me for $8, the male nurse I had met the day before at the Infirmary when I needed vitamin C for my UTI stopped next to us and invited me into his car for the ride down.  Yeah!!!!! Thank you God….there’s always a way!!!!  We may have no idea how, who, when…but just trusting that it is coming is all we need for manifesting our desire.

I loooove the feeling of a hard day’s workout and then sitting down to a delicious drink and a meal of my choice.  After that, passing out and sleeping soundly for 10 hours.  The next day I took it slow and headed to Porto Novo in the afternoon, a beautiful 12-mile ride winding through the lunar landscape of the East Coast of Santo Antão, in which I cursed myself for not having my bike.  Never will I heed anyone’s fearful warnings again.  My bike goes with me everywhere and fuck it, though I am thinking about selling or trading it for a big, thin touring wheeled bike, like my old Dawes from England, which withstood 9 months of biking with one flat tire and no other issues.  I need to manifest that one again.

My next and final Santo Antão adventure took me to the West Coast of the island, to the fishing village of Tarrafal, which used to provide São Vicente with all of its water.  After two and a half hours of driving, half of which was on the rugged cobblestone highway and half on the horrendous and forever-winding unimproved rocky dirt 4WD road across desolation and rocks…the happy and peaceful village of Tarrafal came to view, but only at the very last turn onto the beach.  I am pretty tough and can handle alot of turbulence, but this ride just really got me ill.  It never stopped for a moment to bump and rock and dip and sway until I regretted not having taken some seasickness pills.  Plus, Jairton, one of the municipal delegates of Tarrafal and a very handsome pro- soccer player evidently had ALOT to say.  He did not stop talking, solo, the whole ride.  It got to the point where I wondered if the others were ever going to intervene or respond.  I was sure he was a Gemini, but no, Sagitarrius.  Close, right?  The opposing sign carries alot of the same qualities.

Tarrafal begins with a long black sand beach…CLEAN!  No crap, no garbage, just sand.  Fine black sand.  Then we entered a tree-lined area with lots of hang-out spaces in the shade, a foreigner’s grand hotel on the right, a long open clearing for a soccer field, and then more houses, stores and hang-out spaces.  My place would be on the right, at the end of the row of houses, with Jenny and Tomás.  I had met Jenny one night in Ponta do Sol with her three boys under 6.  She reminded me so much of me with my three boys, goin’ it solo.  She is a black local Cabo Verdian married to a white Spanish Canarian and the three boys are all white with curly brown hair and brown eyes, 2, 4 and 5 years old:  Ari, Luisito and Isaac. 

They have a guesthouse called Marina Tarrafal and when I had mentioned to Jenny my mission, she immediately invited me to come and build something.  I had decided to take on her invitation and offered my services in exchange for room and board.  I was welcome.  Feels good to be wanted.  And Jenny’s cooking was quite amazing, to the point where I was way too full several nights in a row.  Multiple course meals with exotic local specialties like goose barnacles and small clam/snail-like shellfish, fresh maracujá juice, catch-of-the day, rice, veggies and dessert!  I was being treated royally and felt very grateful.  My part was to test local soil specimens for clay content and build a small test oven.  Their set-up, right in front of the ocean, with awesome food, nice, simple rooms and lots of greenery would be perfect for a workshop.  They want to build cob bungalows for guests, a cob kitchen and compost toilets.  Like most people I come into contact with, as that is who I search out and who I attract.  I need a bigger global world plan once this journey is over or even before.  I am travelling to see what is going on out there and how to best change the world into a big GREEN PLANET as soon as possible and as easily as possible.  I am scoping out the needs and hope to join hearts and minds and Spirit with others of the same vein with whom we can create the fool-proof PLAN that works everywhere.  Top-down and bottom-up working together.  Clearly I need help as my strength is the idea and launching energy as well as the information I have gathered and the intuition to know what can work.  The details, the implementation is for others to take on.

While hiking the local terrain for the possible clay sources Tomás had scoped out, I found some slightly clayey red soil falling from the rocks behind the cemetery, a small concentration of super duper coffee-colored clay from this one cave below a treacherous overhang along the ignam plantations on a cliff, and then loads of eroded pulverized rock sliding down the valley face which turned out to be perfect cob mix.  I returned by foot with all my samples hanging on my back, from my arms and on my head, with loads of curious eyes checking this lady out.  There is nothing you can do in Cabo Verde or Africa without being seen by at least one pair of eyes.  Everyone knows what everyone is doing, especially if you are a white chica.  Therefore it was no surprise that the next day, when Tomás sent someone to go harvest several bags of the “perfect mix” for finishing the oven, he was pushed away by yelling locals who forbade him from using “their” ignam clay soil, meaning the mud they lined their water channels with and encircled their plantations with to keep the water in.  The whole mountainside was eroding in ridiculously large quantities that would clearly not run out  until the whole mountain had been broken down which I guessed would happen at some point but in the small amounts that they needed it for, that some point was very very unimaginably far off.  In my intuitive opinion that is.  Nonetheless, Tomás bore the bad news that there was some cultural conflict African-style in which we were not allowed to use the soil, noone owned it, and we could not purchase it.  It was for the common benefit of the ignam plantations of generations to come and even if all we wanted was four bags, he was not ready or in a position, as a Spaniard, to fight for it.  Enlightening.  Thus we got creative and made do with the red soil amended with the super duper clay slip for our trial oven.  It turned out the oven got semi-destroyed by their dogs the day I left and Tomás would have to start over again, hopefully remembering the mix.  His cob village dreams would have to materialize using some other source of clay.  I mean, being that there is one driving hour of pure rock terrain belonging to noone surrounding Tarrafal…hope is not lost.

I must mention my big wake-up that occurred in Tarrafal, now home to my precious beautiful hand-made personalized silver and gold spiral ring with ruby, emerald, sapphire, amethyst and opal that I had bought for myself for this trip as a protection and companion, placed on my right index finger of the “I”.  One swimming day, like so many others before it, as I was free-styling through the ocean, it suddenly slipped off my finger and fell quickly to the bottom.  Even with goggles on it was impossible to see anything as the water was “sucio” or “milky”.  Shocked and devastated that this ring, which I played with and admired daily, an expensive gift to myself that I was proud to wear, had so easily slipped off and I was helpless.  It had never just fallen off before.  My other rings were looser than that one and were intact on my fingers and alot cheaper too.  It was very odd.  For these reasons I had to sit back and ask myself:  “What’s the message here?” 

My dear friend Arlindo had showed up.  Before the infamous ring-losing swim I noticed his butt-protruding waddle, red swim shorts, muscular tank-topped torso and little army cap as I walked onto the beach.  He was pretty far off, like hundreds of feet away, yet I knew it had to be him since he was possibly going to be here at this time.  He also spotted and recognized me as I entered the water.  As I swam and he walked towards each other…I came onto the sand to greet and hug and kiss him.  Like long-lost friends, of only a few days before, we were so excited to get another chance to hang out.  Our last goodbye did not know it would be the last.  It was after this event, and a plan to meet that night, that my beloved ring slipped off.

After being with Arlindo in Ponta do Sol and coming down with a UTI, whether from him or the dehydration or both, I decided enough is enough.  Having sex with him was quite dissappointing compared to all the affectionate foreplay before.  He is a classic Piscean addict, cigarettes and booze are his drugs of choice, and possibly sex.  It was the most awkward, quick and uneventful sexual experience ever.  I did not even feel him though he looked sizeable.  He apparently enjoyed it.  It was this event, and the grogue drinking, and the UTI the next day that all came together and somewhat strongly, bore an energy in me of “time for change”.  No more uneventful sex, no more useless drinking that made me feel dizzy and dumb, no more opening my Body and Soul to people I barely knew, no more disrespecting my Self and this precious Temple I have been blessed with.  You know things are gonna change when the impetus comes from deep deep disgust.  And the ring, well the ring was clearly God saying so….ya mean it?  Cause you have been disrespecting and bailing on yourself over and over again, turning your back on your words the very next day just for a fuck?  With a stranger?  No orgasm? No mutuality?  No love? Baye Ass was the first gift from God, showing me a new way was possible to love.  I liked Arlindo despite his flaws, but surely not enough to share deep and loving sex with.  We had a much better time out of bed than in.  No surprise, he was drunk by the time we got into bed.  What was I doing?  So…back to the ring.  Basically the ring falling off was God sending me a message of me losing my Self.  This ring I loved and cherished, so beautiful, for it to stay on my finger, needed me to love and cherish myself, as it represented ME.  At that inspiring moment of clarity I knew I was done.  Out with the old and in with the new skin.  After all this is my Year of Death in the Tarot deck, #13.  In the WEMOON Calendar, the second half of 2015 would bring big new things, mostly work-wise, but it’s all related.

I feel changed.  Thank You Goddess!  It’s about time!  Noone will get between my legs unless it is truly the time, they have been tested and we have a solid friendship, passion, love and affection between us.  I am not a slut.  I need to respect ME.  Period.  In the meantime, as Baye Ass said, can we not “make love” without having intercourse?  There is time, there is time.  And as for the drinking, really it has no purpose for me.  Sometimes when I’m really thirsty, sweaty and hot, a cold beer hits the spot.  But I can make it a non-alcoholic cold beer as I do enjoy the bitter taste.  My brain is already suffering from age, computer, cell phone waves, tiredness and hormonal changes.  Any reason I should add to its struggle to stay clear?  Should I not be optimizing my capacities for as long as I am on the Planet, to best benefit from all the miraculous experiences to be had and best give back what I am here to give back?  My job is to be at my BEST every day and think about how I can help in more, bigger and better ways while continuing to improve myself.  A bright LIGHT is what I strive to be, infusing my rays to those I come into contact with.  And when I come into contact with negativity, disrespect and other kinds of dysfunctional personalities, like Amaury, Alain, Georgie, my sister and mother…just let them be.  No need to push, make things happen, change them, fix them….just say my piece and then let it go and walk away.  With Love (important!) rather than Self-Righteousness.  Praying for them rather than boosting myself.  Always asking: “What would the Buddha do?  Christ?  Dalai Lama?”  And from this come into understanding compassion and self-respect, authentically.  Not just in ideas and words, they don’t cut it.  I have to feel it to my depths.  This is daily work.  During my meditation and prayer time is when I must remember:  Self-Respect, Love, Compassion.  Travelling throughout the Planet I meet many many many different people and engage with them.  I must stay centered and hold onto my Power without expectations from them that they are perfect.  And most importantly not let myself be influenced by others’ negativity and dysfunctions.  This is not my stuff, it’s theirs.  No thank you and walk away and end of story.  Clean conscience, clean plate, clean side of the street.

For this reason, God blessed me with the next wonderful group of people I stayed with for the last four days after leaving Santo Antão and arriving back in São Vicente.  Susana and Nuno are a beautiful couple.  A Scorpio and a Pisces, soft, gentle, never yelling…with 1.5-year old twin girls and a four-year old boy.  Susana’s voice is barely audible.  As her son Lucas does some unwanted thing to one of his sisters, and when any other mother would yell or speak aggressively, Susana just speaks softly and with no emotion, as if she was saying anything else to anyone, telling Lucas not to do that thing.  I am in shock, and interested, and aware of the great difference with which I parented.  These people are some of the kindest, easy-goingest, real, honest folks I have been around in a long time.  Like angels, they bless me with their soft Spirits of Love and Kindness.  And I them.  I felt so comfortable being with them.  There were no unpredictable breakouts, moodinesses, confusing comments, strange energies and guessing.  It was all right on the table.  For all of us.  I really really enjoyed and benefitted from being with them.  I feel it is a gift, a reward, God saying….”OK, this is what it CAN be like.  When you are on your game, behaving and living with Self-Respect.  You will attract the same kind of people.  While the others are hashing it out and attracting their “like” Soul Mates to do the work with, the Higher Vibration people can work together to create more goodness on the Planet.  May I attract the Goodness and be surrounded with the Goodness.  Thank You.  Thank You.  Thank You.  I am once again Blessed.  Blessed. Blessed.  Sending blessings to Viva, Joia and Xica…and to Jan, Yvonne, Eddie, Ellen, Eden, Jackie and my Family no longer on the Planet: Claude, Denise, Alex, Mina, Liliane and Alphonse.

São Nicolau: A Different Vibe

Another overnight boat ride though this time I was not lulled to sleep as we departed at 1am and, well, after 11pm, I get a mental recharge and then it’s a constant buzzing in the mind.  Surrounded by soldiers who slept with NO ACCOUTREMENTS whatsoever on the bare metal ground, on the hard wooden benches, and me on my soft camping pad, in my cozy sleeping bag and with my favorite pillow under my head…still couldn’t get sleep in.  I wondered if they did.  The military man’s life.  Today one of them even told me it was more comfortable then the pile of rocks he slept on last time. 

The boat arrived at dawn.  I love arriving at dawn in a new town.  You get to see the place come alive with the early birds.  Already São Nicolau is gentle, easy, soft, spacious.  The ocean is welcoming, the black sand beaches relatively clean and comfortable, there are no assaults or robbers on this island.  It feels safe and happy.  A Garden of Eden of sorts.  No stress.  While Sal prides itself on the No Stress logo, there is much stress there.  I am set up at Pensão Alice, who is in her late 70’s, and runs the family Residencial in an old house with 18 bedrooms that are all confusingly organized and hard to find.  Like a good old big family house.  I find my new room with double bed, a minute terrace and a small view of the ocean.  As usual, there is a large rooftop terrace for morning yoga.  After a morning nap to makeup for the sleepless boat ride, I took an orientation walk through town and to the nearest swimming beach, Praia Telha.  I worked out a bike rental deal with a biker so I can start moving these legs onto pedals again, found a swim partner in Adivande and chilled out the rest of the afternoon on the terrace typing these words so I could catch up finally.  Oh and there is a local gelateria with real Italian ice cream!!!!  I have been jonesing for ice cream for a while now, and this is the real deal…all the way from Italia!  They send the product over and I guess they make it here with the machine and add some milk and presto:  gelato!  Hazelnut, red fruits and chocolate!  Happy Happy Joy Joy!

My 10 days in São Nicolau were highlighted by another gift of love and healing sexual play with lots of affection and adventure with my Tarrafal sweetheart, 28-year old Zeca.  It all began with my flat tire in Praia Branca, to where I had ridden with Adivandre on twelve miles of hellish cobblestone “highway”.  First and last time.  My yoni was not happy nor were my wrists and whole body for that matter.  Here they are accustomed to the shaking and jackhammering of the whole body/bike ensemble and attempt to ride quickly to lessen the disturbance.  The cars also speed over the jittery road surface aiming for a hydroplane effect.  To reduce the torture I chose to ride on the side of the road in the dirt whenever possible, taking the risk of invisible thorns lying in wait.

It was at Serginho’s ochre cob-plastered cement block house that I noticed my flat.  Serginho and Simone and her son are building a little village of cob guesthouses.  Apparently all the locals are ridiculing him for building an earthen structure with adobe blocks, telling him it will fall down.  So far so good.  Serginho is a Brazilian implant who has chosen this small town on the west end of São Nicolau, close to the best and non-frequented waves of the island.  He is keeping them a secret and it is a real sweet spot.  Serginho is a cobbing colleague, also with the intention to teach Cabo Verdians the art of natural building.  His expectant partner Simone, a cute and shy local with short, cropped dark blond curly hair and a halter top sundress to highlight her belly and lean legs, is a convert and helps him make the plasters and cover the walls.  Her adorable 10-year old blonde son, adopted by Serginho, clearly enjoys playing all over and with the building materials too.  Another young l8-year old local, fully outfitted with a big jacket and gloves and long pants to protect himself from the sun in the searing heat, is working on the cob floor mix.  Serginho has been training him and paying him.  Apparently, he tells me, it is very hard to find people to work here, especially every day.  I guess they aren’t jonesing for money.

Serginho is a Pisces, born one day before me, and, like crazy Alain on Santo Antão, is a restless, nervous, slightly aggressive and slightly rude type A personality that doesn’t stop doing things.  This is my impression after an hour of being in his presence.  He has a huge to-do list mostly based on finishing his construction projects before running out of money, but takes the time to hang out with me and give me a tour of his place highlighting all the important points.  He is trying to upgrade the land around him which he clearly loves, green it up by planting trees and educating the locals not to cut them.  São Nicolau has some green “ribeiras” (valleys) like Santo Antão, but is mostly dry and rocky.  Because of its mountains it has the potential for rain, mostly in the highlands.  The villages in the mountains which live on their terraced agriculture wait all year for the August to October rains.  Planted seeds wait patiently and once those waters hit, everything explodes.  The lower areas greenify too, though the southern coastline, one of the most beautiful I have ever enjoyed being on, is pretty much solid rock.

From Tarrafal, the port and fishing town which has the largest population of São Nicolau, to Praia Branca, the coast is wild, untouched (save for a few houses), accessible, clean, relaxing and breezy.  Certain stretches, like Praia d’Francés, have beautiful rock formations that have large overhangs and caves for evading the hot midday sun hours.  The mornings and late afternoons are pure joy here.  The sand is multicolored, soft and cushy, there is some good snorkeling, there is a view of Santa Luzia, Brava and Rasa, and  there is noone there!  Everytime I went, there were either a few people or noone.  The beach is lined with these U-shaped indentations where you can set up camp privately only in the presence of small tweeting bird couples (paradal?) that come to greet you when you arrive and in the morning at sunrise.  Hands down, one of my favorite coastlines and beaches ever, and definitely on my list of “possible sites” for creating an ecovillage.

Back to my flat tire and Zeca.  While Serginho’s attempt to inflate my tire only proved that I had a big thorn puncture…Adivandre went out to find help.  As we walked into the village, word got out that the white chick’s bike had a flat and within minutes tools and patches were gathered and a tall handsome local was on it.  I went off to the small “loja” to buy thank you drinks and when I returned there was another handsome local on the other side of the bike.  Both of them were clearly bikers, whipping the wheel and tire off in seconds, finding the puncture, sanding it down, coating with glue and waiting the recommended universal 5 minutes before applying the patch.  The second helper, was the first one’s brother.  HE was the one who I immediately felt hot for.  His smile was endearing, his big purple sunglasses were funky and different, his shy energy was a magnet, and then of course his bike tricks for my attention drew it.  Zeca was his name, short for José.  I had no choice but to leave, back with my escort Adivandre, out of politeness.  I knew Zeca wanted me and I made sure he knew I was interested, turning to wave goodbye and loudly stating that we would see each other in Tarrafal.  That was all I could do, besides being energetically clear that there was NOTHIN’ with Adivandre.  The whole bike ride back I saw only his smile.  My heart was awakened, and other parts too.  I was hoping he would pass us so I could signal more interest and sure enough, 20 minutes into the return ride, he passed in the back of the pickup truck and I blew him a kiss.  I knew he knew.

I couldn’t wait to get back, shower, change my clothes, and go find him in the streets, along with some food.  I had not eaten all day and done 24 miles of horrible biking.  Sure enough, manifestation was happening very quickly because hearts were aligned (I soon found out).  Zeca had also gone home, showered, and into the street looking for me.  The gods had an easy job of bringing our pure hearts together again because we were both on the same clear mission of love.  Love at first sight?  Lust at first sight?  Both?  Within 5 minutes of hitting the street going to eat and there he was, right in my path.  Smiles exploded, energy high, I invited him to dinner and he accepted naturally, and soon we were sitting alone in my bike rentee’s restaurant.  Zeca strummed a guitar beautifully and looked up at me with a loving smile every few seconds.  Compliment after compliment ensued.  I was beautiful, he was touched, in love, he wanted me, he would be so happy living with me for the rest of his life, he wanted me to meet his family, it was all crazy, “doido, doido” he kept repeating.  He had never felt so much emotion, so much love.  He had an everpresent heart-touching smile on his face, a soft presence, a Cancer, lots of affection…emotions and feelings dominated him.

That night we kissed.  Alot.  I have to admit he had a very unpleasant breath that turned me off, kind of metallic.  Everything else was gung-ho but the breath.  Even with gum.  He had also been drinking grogues and I told him I wanted to know if he would feel the same the next morning when the grogue had worn off.  I wanted to know him grogue-free.  He said he would not drink anymore grogue while he was with me.  Thank God for the bad breath because I had a mission to uphold, a promise with God and with myself that I would respect and honor me and my body forthwith.  I would wait to get to know someone before having sex, I would use a condom or check out their testing.  Here I was getting a chance to try out my seriousness…the ring…was I going to be worth the ring?  The groguey bad breath helped me take the time to remember.

My honesty was being tested too in terms of money.  God gave me three opportunities to show my upstanding qualities I was going for.  In all three instances the “old” initial instinct showed up first, eager to profit from an error, an omission and a lost bill.  In all three instances I had a few minutes to “remember” the higher road, which would benefit me alot more for alot longer than the spiritual consequences of the short-term gain could.  Feels good to grow, to change, to become a better person with a clear conscience.  To sleep more peacefully, as the Buddha once said, by delighting in the Truth.

I followed my Heart which found in Zeca a kind and generous Soul, happy, easy-going, helpful and passionate.  Like Baye Ass from Senegal, a “good” man.  I waited three full days with all my best intention to do the right thing.  To do things differently.  My resistance to sex was in direct relationship with his desire.  So much love, desire, affection, hunger exuded from his Being every moment of our walk along the beach, up the steep canyon, up the mountain, down the other side, until finally, on our fourth night together…I felt ready.  Being that I was only going to be there for a week…it felt reasonable.  I had waited more than 50% of the total together time, I guess.  The more he wanted me the easier it was to resist because it seemed so ridiculous.  We barely knew each other and he said he would be happy for the rest of his life with me? Hahaha.  If he only knew.  The first night we met he was already in love.  Or so he thought.  More like lust.  So I held out to see what was behind that lusty love.  I was really feeling the age difference and enthralled by it as well.  I told him I was 45, which is what most people guess, but in reality I am  only 4 years younger than his Mom.  These countries have no qualms about age.

Zeca carried my heavy load which was mostly my sleeping aids, toiletries, solar panel, and water for both of us.  I carried his light pack and our food.  He was light-hearted and joyful and loving the whole way, showing me his land, sharing tidbits of stories, pointing out fruit trees and plants and talking about his past and his family.  Having the lusty love thing going made it even more enjoyable as all of our stops included make-out sessions under the mango trees, against the rocks or at the top of precipices.  As soon as our strong passionate lips touched, the fire was on.  My vow to “wait” was clear and made him even more excited and quicker to show it.  Honestly it was a bit much for me and felt youthful, but I was touched too by his Heart.

Walking up the Ribeira Prata Canyon was a breeze after Santo Antão, at first.  We hiked up the riverbed, rockhopping and constantly looking for the trail, at least I was.  It just seemed to be improvised along the easiest route, perhaps by the goats but also by the people who lived upstream in Fragata.  The higher we got the steeper the path got, and so the few stops to chat with all the people he knew along the way were welcome.  He knew everyone.  He had either fixed their sugarcane pressing machine motor, installed their electrical system, or was related somehow.  We met a wonderful man in his 60’s who had sailed the world on cargo ships, spoke English pretty well, and now was retired back in Cabo Verde, with his piece of land and house up at the top of the canyon.  He was irrigating his banana field, flooding it with water on his assigned day.  Lucky for him the water was running all year in this Ribeira and, as in all these canyons, the irrigation system was elaborately set up to water everybody’s parcel  one day of the week.  They would just open the tubing up at their spot and send the water flooding down from terrace to terrace.

When we finally reached Fragata, our first “destination”, of which there were three (Fragatinha, Fragatona and Fragata), we found four handsome villagers sitting down to a game of cards on the edge of a precipice.  They were all tall and dark tough mountain men wearing torn and worn clothing from US shipping containers.  The hottest one had dreads under a wool hat, and looked a bit like Michael Franti minus the facial hair.  We did not faze them in any way.  They looked up for a second to greet Zeca and spotted our plastic 1.5-gallon water container, a valuable item when you have to fetch your water every day.  They were the second request for it coming up the mountain.  I asked for some papayas in exchange, the ripening ones I had spotted sitting at the top of a tall skinny tree.  Unfortunately they were the older retired man’s below and he was not here.  Normally Cabo Verdians will shout from one valley wall to another and with short, aborted words and phrases, get each other’s drift quickly.  He was too far away.

It was a pretty nondescript stop, highlighted only by a very sad and bawling little girl with braided beaded locks shuffling down the dirt pathway as her mother or aunt or older sister kept hitting her with a long pole of sisal, egging her little trembling body along like they would a donkey.  I was not happy at this sight, especially as the tall female seemed so content and proud of her abuser role, having no compassion whatsoever for the little sad being she was related to.  Most likely she was once treated this way as well.  Cabo Verdians are definitely prone to domestic violence within couples but also parents yelling at and beating children.  They love to scream, especially at their helpless chidren.  Every day wherever I lived I would hear mothers berating loudly, almost rising to a peak shrill before recovering back to normal.  I know I was one of those in my day so no judgment.  It’s just that it stands out after quiet Senegal, where people tend to keep their voices down and are more reserved.

Zeca and I continued up the last stretch of climb which was one of the most intense in my series.  It was the least maintained and apparently had been redone recently with rocks chopped off the sidewalls and jumbled into a makeshift path.  The hairpin turns came every 10 feet now, tighter and tighter.  I would look behind me and down to where we had come from each time, incredulous of the sheer climb we had accomplished from ocean to sky.  Now we were almost cresting and the landscape was very raw.  Zeca knew it well, as he had perused his island various times, and I felt in utter security with him.  I was also actually enjoying the rigorous exercise which I coordinated with 2 open-mouthed breaths out for one closed-mouth breath in.  It could only bring me benefits.  The last bit was just straight up to the top, where I could spot a posse of goats having fun. The wind had risen now and blew hard each time I walked to the west.  It was only slightly scary, especially near the sheer cliff edge.  When we got to the top, the winds were going full power and our destination downslope another couple of miles was in sight. 

Calháus is where Zeca’s father’s parents had lived, leaving behind a stone house, papaya trees and land to work on.  Zeca was proud of his piece of terrain up here, only a 2-mile walk down the canyon back to Praia d’Francés.  There were currently 2 middle-aged men living here, feeding the various cows and donkeys with sugarcane straw and living a peaceful and noneventful life.  As long as the water flows, there will be life here.  If the water stops flowing, the village becomes abandoned.  This village of Calháus had become abandoned for other reasons, mainly economic, as people had a harder and harder time earning income to support their needs beyond what the land and animals were capable of providing.  Calháus is a beautiful village squeezed in a canyon and extending longways towards the ocean.  There are mangoes, papayas, oranges, lemons, limes and guavas in late summer, when the rains have begun.  Unfortunately our mountain trek hit just as the mangoes were about to ripen.  Some mangoes are ripe while still green and Zeca helped me find those.  I also knew about the mini mangoes I had discovered on Santo Antão, and kept a lookout for those scrumptious little jewels that you can eat whole, minus the small flat paper-like pit.  We passed some of the biggest mango trees I have ever seen, with thousands of fruit growing wildly and generously year after year.  It must stink under there with all the fermenting fruit during the peak time.  The people tell me everyone comes and just stuffs themselves with mango.  I told them they could make good money drying them and sending them to California….all the way from the isolated canyons of Cabo Verde.  Takes motivation though, and the grogue comes first here.

In Calháus Zeca and I bedded down on a foam mattress that we took off the generously offered indoor bed and placed outside on the concrete patio.  I would have preferred being on one of those soft soil terraces…but it wasn’t my mattress and I had to compromise.  Tute, the donor, slept inside his propane-scented rock house, impervious to the “first night of lovemaking” sounds outside.  The sky was so crazy with stars that even the usually dark background was white with stars.  The moon was growing and distancing itself from its companions Venus and the North Star.  We slept under a big tree of sorts and for whatever reason, tonight would be the fourth night and I was ready to let my guard down for my very hungry and passionate young lover friend Zeca.  He was so committed to me at this point, expressing his love continuously and showering me with kisses and hugs at every opportunity.  As I expected, our first lower chakra encounter culminated quickly for him, even before intercourse, as he had been building up his excitement for days.  I was tranquil, the mature older woman.  Hahaha.  It took a few times before things became more “normal” and he could really be himself and show his love for sensual exchange and the female body. 

The several days that followed, all the way to our last night together back on Praia d’Francés where we had started our journey a week before, were one big passionate lovemaking fest.  It has been a long time since I have had this kind of fluid youthful blissed out mutual passion with someone.  His desire and excitement at being close to me and with the first kiss was infectious.  I really let go of my mind with him and my juices flowed which made it all the more fun and easy and continuous.  It was good for me to know that I could still get there in this way, with minimal time, and my body felt good.  I felt like I was in my 20’s again, with my ex-husband, with whom I also enjoyed this kind of passionate juiciness.  Zeca’s age and vibe really matched mine as far as our playfulness and loving affection for each other, but our age and cultural difference was also responsible for simple conversations, repeated explanations, and limited intellectual opportunity really.  His whole life revolved around his electrical and plumbing work during the weekdays, drinking grogue the rest of the day, and having fun.  He was also, however, a bike trickster and a top mechanic for bikes, motorcyles and even autos.  Zeca has alot of talents that he can use anywhere in the world and I encouraged him to get his passport and start saving some money up for a plane ticket.
As a white single woman entering Third World countries, I am a target for the hot guys who are looking for a free ride out to the moneyed lands.  It is very tempting to bring along one of these beautiful sensual exotic men to keep me juiced and loved every day and night, in exchange for providing them with everything.  Right?  Uh uh…not my thing.  I want a man who works, who has skills, who doesn’t ask me for anything.  A man who is even satisfied with his life and not seeking a way out via me.  Zeca never asked and as the good Cancer that he is, seems happy “at home” where he mostly lives with Grandma, Mom, Dad, Sisters, Brothers, and Daughter.  They all welcomed me into their modest concrete block two-story abode with a grogue bar in the front, two dining rooms to feed the whole family at once, and various bedrooms.  A large terrace dominated the second story for laundry washing and drying.  Food was always ready and available, usually fish with rice and potatoes, as there were always hungry bellies coming in and out.  Beta, mother of 5 from 8 to 32 years of age, lived between the kitchen and the bar.  Her hair in rollers for drying  and covered by an olive-green scarf was a ubiquitous sight in Cabo Verde.  Something they enjoyed doing for each other but I didn’t really get how it helped the hair dry.  I thought it was more about straightening.

Beta is 4 years older than me and I am banging her son who is 5 years older than mine.  It works.  Noone seems to mind, though I kept my age at what everyone seems to think it is, 45.  Still, it’s cute.  The dad was closer to my age and wasn’t too bad looking but from the way the family ignored him, I got the lowdown that he was a lone wolf type that hadn’t been around much for their childhoods, mostly banging women in other towns.  Nonetheless the family was tight-knit and Zeca an integral part.  Financially he gifted a chunk of each day’s work to his Mom and for his daughter who was with him for the summer.  He had a not-very-paternal relationship with his daughter Magda, which may be what happens when you become a father at 20.  She clearly was not into my taking her father away from her, but she also had the whole rest of the family to hang with for the few days I would be here.  I tried to include her as much as possible and even took her and her uncle of the same age, Zeca’s youngest brother Adrian, 8 years old, to the beach.

While Zeca had been grogue-free for the first three days of our trip, which I really enjoyed, perhaps the hallucinating desires that took over his body replaced the grogue effect.  On our last day as we started the uphill cobblestone walk up another valley to the main road where we would take an aluguer back to Tarrafal, we made the mistake, in hindsight, of stopping at “the last shop” before reaching the gnarly hairpin uphill segment to Cachaço.  A plump Norwegian woman with greying teeth and her Cabo Verdian partner, same teeth but tall and skinny with dreads, encouraged us to stop and have a grogue before attacking the climb.  I stayed outside.  Zeca played the guitar inside and, unbeknownst to me, was downing grogue shots.  I had to ask him to go several times and it was very hard for him to pull away.  He kept talking and talking.  It was then that I realized the effect of the grogue on him.  As we walked up the hill he just kept talking away, standing still as he talked and talked.  I kept going knocking those feet of altitude away breath by breath.  It was clear to me that one of the effects of grogue on him was enhanced talkativity and a slowing down of the body.  Suddenly it was me in the lead pumping up the steep path, which he noticed. 

In the following days I stayed in his room separate from the family house to save some money and make it easier to be together.  We slept on the roof terrace, in the sauna room, and on the beach, trying to find the perfect location to evade mosquitoes and stay cool.  While the passion and lust continued…something had shifted in him.  It seemed the emphasis on love had faded.  I did not hear the “meu amor” word too much anymore.  He would go to work in the morning and tell me he would be back very soon and not come back for hours, or even not till the evening time on one day.  Everytime we would see each other he would be full of reasons why things had taken more time, usually work-related.  He went into detail on all the electrical wiring and tubes and appliances that had to be unexpectedly added, the extra work that he had to finish, the other job he had gone to see, etc.  I was leaving in a few days and while I knew he had to work, there did not seem to be much effort made to keep me posted and update his time change.  In the end, I realized it was the grogue again.  People were offering him grogue at the work place, back at Mom and Pop’s Bar, at other bars along the way, and, as I have already experienced in my life ad nauseam, the grogue was the priority.  While in the mountains it was me, now back in the town, his usual rhythm, which I had not known save for the first night we met, set in. 

Each time we reunited he would stand back, not want to kiss me and apologize for his grogue breath which I had told him I did not like.  On one level however it excited me, reminded me of sex, passion, juiciness…all the way back to the days of Jan, my ex.  Incredible how a smell can bring back a whole slough of emotions and experiences and create feelings in the body, even cravings.  I told him it was his life and he didn’t have to apologize and that I still loved him…but that he should watch out because alcoholism creeps up on you unawares.  I also pointed out that those drunken grogue addicts sitting at his family’s bar all day and fueling the coffers were once attractive healthy young men like him.  He refuted the word “alcoholic” being applied to him and made a clear distinction between him and them.  Typical.  Of course.  Fact is he was downing maybe a dozen shots or more thoroughout the day.  Little shots here and there all day long.  Scary.  A whole nation weaned on hard core rum.  Holding people back from full power.  Keeping them in their place, satisfied, drunkenly finishing off their days, day after day.  Would Zeca wake up and really motivate to do something different or would he just be fine with his life here in Tarrafal?  In the end, though he responded “Yes!” to all my ideas, I did not feel a true interest on his part.  I could be wrong but my theory is that as long as the grogue is #1, Zeca will be #2.  He has so much potential, but staying in his element may be the best he will be willing to do in the end.

My second to last day in this seaside fishing village began with a wailing sound early in the morning, like around 5 or 6 am.  Repeated chants, over and over, for what seemed like hours.  When I eventually gained consciousness from another sleepless night outside on the rooftop terrace battling mosquitoes and heat, I asked Zeca what the sound was.  He said it was people crying for someone who had died.  It was definitely not the usual “crying” I knew, as an American or Westerner.  It was almost like a song, a wailing chorus of voices.  It was a ritual, an announcement, an honoring…for the whole town to hear. 

Zeca had work to do, and after we had our first “talk” the night before regarding his need to communicate more accurately and responsibly regarding his timeframe, he made an effort to do so that morning.  I wanted to sleep on the beach again for our last night together and wanted to get some afternoon sun time in.  He did not seem to be so gung-ho though when I asked him he replied with a generic “Yes Yes I want to go.”  His excitement for me seemed to have died down and while I wanted to know why, I also did not want to push.  In the end I regret not having asked straighforwardly because now, I am gone, and he has not written or called in the 2 days since I have been gone.  I trained him on Whatsapp, Viber, Skype and Gmail, not to mention the ususal calling and texting which he had to know how to do.  Nothing.  I have been dealing with trying to stop ruminating over why he is not responding and opening up to spiritual answers.  The ring I lost in the ocean a month ago almost showed up.  Tomas from Santo Antão emailed me that a ring with 12 diamonds had been found, asking if it was mine.  I took it as a message from God that it is still possible that my ring will be found, but I need to hold onto myself and not let myself be carried away by these emotions for this young alcoholic lover who is clearly not there with me anymore.  I even got a new ring for another finger, in honor of my new Self?

Our last night and morning on the deserted beach were sweet, full of photographs and videos, running around naked like Adam and Eve, sleeping under misty showers and waking up to another cloudy day.  I felt him pulling away a little more.  When we got back to town, there were only a few hours left till my departure to the airport.  We ran some errands and then headed to the family’s for lunch, where I offered up a huge California veggie salad to complement the fish and potatoes.  The youngest kids ate the salad up with zest.  As did everyone. I ate across from Zeca and between Grandma and Dad, for the first time.  Dad did a whole rundown of my schedule and plans till my return again.  He was definitely more interesting conversation than Zeca and didn’t do the grogue.  My favorite was Grandma, Beta’s 94-year old (though I don’t believe it) mother who walked around barefoot in her mountain gypsy flowered skirt/apron, American T-shirt and scarfed head with hoop earrings.  She was a damn strong woman and gave me hugs that showed it.  We had a special thing for each other that was felt in the hug.  Each time we saw each other a big smile shown, each time we said goodbye she blessed me with prayers.  This woman was a hiker and walker and didn’t seem to fit in to this “city” family home but perhaps had no choice.  I liked her energy and she represented the old ways, the traditional ways, the Earth Mama ways.  She was absolutely stunning too, with all her original teeth intact while her daughter’s had started to fall out.  Maria Rosa, with a deep voice of strength and self-empowerment.  I hope we meet again.

Upon my departure from the lunch table and the many hugs and well wishes to each family member, tears welled up as I thought of the wonderful week of passionate bliss I shared with Zeca and not knowing when and if our eyes would meet again.  I walked alone to the room one last time to pack up my stuff.  The taxi van beeped outside and I was not ready.  Where was Zeca?  Once again he was running late for me.  I told the driver to get the other passengers first.  Why was Zeca taking so long?  Would he even make it?
Finally he arrived.  Before our eyes met I caught a glimpse of his face as he approached unaware that I was looking at him.  His head was cocked down and he had a perturbed expression on his face.  Why?  I did not know in the moment if it was sadness, guilt for being late again or confusion.  As he raised his head our eyes met and within seconds the van was outside honking again for me.  We hugged deeply and passionately one last time, my tears flowing rapidly, as they had with Baye Ass.  We kissed and kissed, feeling each other’s lips one last time.  He uttered only these words: “ Eu nunca te vou esquecer…nunca te vou esquecer…gostei muito de conhecerte.”  “I will never forget you, never forget you.  I really liked getting to know you.”  All I could say was “Thank You for everything. I love you. I will not be with anyone else until I see you again.”  To which he responded: “Vamos ver. Tranquilo.” “We will see. Be calm.”

During the one hour ride to the airport I cried the whole way looking out the window at the scene I had shared with him three days earlier.  I sent him all the best love portfolio we had shot on the beach naked that morning.  I texted him.  I waited for a response.  Nothing.  I called him from the airport as he had requested, to which he told me he could not talk and that he would call back later.  Nothing.  I called him from Sal while he was at an outdoor music venue and could hear nothing.  He never called back.  I left him a written and a voice message on Whatsapp.  No response.  Today I saw he had been online in the previous days and had not responded or called.  Nada.  Don’t know what the excuse could be and I am tired of thinking about it so I have written him my final message of being done with writing and calling and wishing to know what is going on in his head and heart.  Nothing hurts me more than lack of communication creating confusion and misunderstanding.  So many questions, thoughts, wonderings.  Why?  A beautiful connection that touched my heart for 10 days is just ended?  Without explanation or understanding.  It pains me and then again there is a lesson.  Always the lesson.  Let it be.  Let it be.  I enjoyed it.  He is not my partner for now anyway.  There is no immediate future.  Perhaps he knows this and accepts this.  And my heart and body are still yearning for his touch, his kiss, his closeness and I need to say goodbye now.  And Thank You.

I have always been drawn to the working man, the “lower” economic class, the ones who can build, fix, rescue, hunt, and basically live from very little input from the material world.  These men are the honest ones, the pure ones and usually are more male with a more potent and raw untainted sexual energy.  The say what they feel, they show their emotions and they don’t get stuck in mental analysis and games.  These are the men I feel comfortable with, safe with and turned on by.  Period.  On the other hand, the conversations stay basic and pure, but not very challenging, interesting or inspiring.  I usually have the upper hand due to my age and financial empowerment, but they have what I want too: raw chi and strong desire.

Thus the man I married and conceived 3 beautiful boys with was of that background and now, at 50, is beginning his college education, at the same time as his sons.  My eldest son is even editing his papers.  Thankfully my two oldest sons spent a few good formative years in small, East Coast liberal arts schools where they woke up to the world and gained skills in writing and thinking.  They also smoked and drank way too much.  Now they are back in their “hometown”, having reneged the college education culture for personal and spiritual growth of their own choice.  They are also dealing with their relationship to health and stimulants, having woken up sooner than their Dad, but also not giving up on a healthy balance with drugs an alcohol.  Luckily they have my genes too, the Jewish ones, that don’t succumb to those addictions, maybe others, like neuroses, but not those.  It remains to be seen how each one decides to live, the path he chooses, and where he will want to settle.  Without me in Santa Cruz, a town that I am happy to be gone from and with each passing day that feeling gets stronger, they are free to explore their Natures, their social relations, and survival.  I have removed myself financially from their lives so they can figure things out and get real.  Viva lives in his VW van outfitted for comfort and ease with the most minimal of expenses.  He works two days a week at Ristorante Avanti, supplying him with nutritional fixins and lessons in wine and Spanish with the kitchen crew.  With his two days a week and some other odd jobs, he is even able to help his little brother pay rent.  Viva spends his days doing whatever his heart desires, which includes beachtime, hikes, playing music, meeting people, reading, meditating, and just BEING.  Both alone and with others.  His goal, he told me when he decided not to attend school anymore, is to learn to be fully present in every moment. 

Joia was welcomed into the Tinetti household gratis and with food.  They love him and he brings positive Light and Energy to the family, he says.  It is true that he brings Love wherever he is and always a compliment, an appreciation, kindness….who can not want more of that?  From selling triple insulated eco-friendly windows under the direction of his best friends as managers to returning to the old Ultramat job on the corner of Laurel and Washington Streets near his childhood house, he is also finding his way as an individual in the world.  He enjoys having the time to read, do research, play music and also help people with laundry machine issues as well as washing for others.  The basics.  Chop wood, carry water.  He is happy and I trust, carving a path for himself that is stimulating and motivating and beneficial to the World.

Xica, the youngest, has opted out of college for now.  He never was much of a school guy yet smart as heck.  A Rat in Chinese astrology, like his rat pack of surfer buddies, his brain never stops absorbing useful information.  Our relationship has gotten better over the year as I support his career as a DJ and electronic music producer at a distance through our monthly Skype calls.  He is just going for what he wants straight as an arrow.  Playing music for crowds, creating a jovial ambiance, being the center and source of the fun and of course the attraction, the star.  While I believe he needs more training and development on the intellectual level to become more well-rounded, as his brothers got, he needs to initiate it.  But I also know that everyone has a different Path and this may come later for him.  We are fortunate to know how to access higher education, to even have it available.  I have seen too many young people just not tapped in to learning because there are no resources or support.  People hungry to go to school, have books, learn skills, knowledge, trades, and don’t get to because it’s just not available.  I want my boys to know that side of things too.  And now, I am blessed, for Viva, my oldest son, has made a clear decision to come and join me in Tarifa as an assistant in my month-long cob course in the south of Spain.  We are getting a one-way ticket to Málaga, open to adventure and the unknown.  Xica, #3, has shown his desire to come out in October and meet up in Portugal, for some European surfin’ fun!  And Joia, well Joia is not quite ready.  Next year he says….in Africa.  All is perfect. All is as it should be.  My life is a dream come true.
Every day a gift.