CABO VERDE, ROUND 4
Porto Novo, June 11, 2016
One month since our arrival from Dakar with 3 bike boxes and a pile of luggage in the minuscule everyone-knows-each-other airport of São Vicente. The preceding days and weeks were filled with confusion on whether we should make the move to Cabo Verde or not. Since November 2015 I was in conversation and then contracted consultation work, including a paid work trip for a week in March, with Patrick de Santos, a reputed international jazz musician and singer. We met in a beautiful way as he was the only person that really reached out to me last year when I was assaulted and robbed of my laptop and phone one scary evening on the island of Sal, near his residence. He brought his computer to the police station to help me track the items down with Find My Mac and Phone. He spoke English perfectly as he had lived in the States. After that we lost touch. One evening in the bath as I was putting energy out for a cob building job somewhere....he called. It was a beautiful conjoining of our mutual desires. He wanted someone to build him his dream Eco-Resort and I wanted to build one for someone.
Fast forward to April 2016. After 5 months of back and forth on Skype, Whatsapp and Gmail exchanging drawings, ideas, calculations, contracts, timeframes, etc., the time drew near. Since my return from Cabo Verde in March Patrick’s communications began waning. His initial frequency and urgency in moving forward dissappeared it seemed. At least regarding me. When he did communicate there was no sign of stopping, though his messages were few and far between. I became confused and concerned, sharing this with Viva and Joia. How to read these changes? Was he just very busy, as he proclaimed, or was this a red flag, right before our arrival.
Two weeks before I contacted him about buying tickets. No answer for days. I went ahead and bought them to take advantage of a good deal. The moment after I bought them a Whatsapp message arrived alerting me to troubles he was having, setbacks, and to not make plans before talking to him. However he did not respond to calls nor call. I could not talk to him. Two days later I receive an email from CheapoAir that my reservations have been cancelled. I had sent him the itinerary. Could he have cancelled them? I went into slight freak- out mode. What was going on? Universe talking? Don’t go?
One month since our arrival from Dakar with 3 bike boxes and a pile of luggage in the minuscule everyone-knows-each-other airport of São Vicente. The preceding days and weeks were filled with confusion on whether we should make the move to Cabo Verde or not. Since November 2015 I was in conversation and then contracted consultation work, including a paid work trip for a week in March, with Patrick de Santos, a reputed international jazz musician and singer. We met in a beautiful way as he was the only person that really reached out to me last year when I was assaulted and robbed of my laptop and phone one scary evening on the island of Sal, near his residence. He brought his computer to the police station to help me track the items down with Find My Mac and Phone. He spoke English perfectly as he had lived in the States. After that we lost touch. One evening in the bath as I was putting energy out for a cob building job somewhere....he called. It was a beautiful conjoining of our mutual desires. He wanted someone to build him his dream Eco-Resort and I wanted to build one for someone.
Fast forward to April 2016. After 5 months of back and forth on Skype, Whatsapp and Gmail exchanging drawings, ideas, calculations, contracts, timeframes, etc., the time drew near. Since my return from Cabo Verde in March Patrick’s communications began waning. His initial frequency and urgency in moving forward dissappeared it seemed. At least regarding me. When he did communicate there was no sign of stopping, though his messages were few and far between. I became confused and concerned, sharing this with Viva and Joia. How to read these changes? Was he just very busy, as he proclaimed, or was this a red flag, right before our arrival.
Two weeks before I contacted him about buying tickets. No answer for days. I went ahead and bought them to take advantage of a good deal. The moment after I bought them a Whatsapp message arrived alerting me to troubles he was having, setbacks, and to not make plans before talking to him. However he did not respond to calls nor call. I could not talk to him. Two days later I receive an email from CheapoAir that my reservations have been cancelled. I had sent him the itinerary. Could he have cancelled them? I went into slight freak- out mode. What was going on? Universe talking? Don’t go?
I reached out with an undisclosed Skype call to his cell phone which he
picked up and rudely just said: “What’s up?” Really? Red flag again.
The dude has his phone attached to his body day in and day out. He
never turns it off except to go to sleep. I know that because I saw it
as we shared an apartment for a week. That experience had some red
flags too. Self-centered, condescending, uneducated, air-headed and
totally unconnected to the Earth. The man did not know how to hold
or use a shovel when I asked him to get me a soil sample. I chose to
have an open compassionate Heart and see beyond the red flags, turn
them pink. Mistake! Big mistake never to repeat! A red flag is a red
flag. See it or don’t. Better to see it and do something about it than
get fucked in the end, which is what happened, longer story short.
Two days before our departure, after we had re-routed our whole journey for this big, important, fruitful job for which my 5 Senegalese top cobbers had spent hard-earned money on getting passports for... he sends an email declaring financial problems which will delay the job by months and other excuses. Viva, Joia and I look at each other and powow in all seriousness. Great Spirit...what the fuck? $1500 in expenses to get to Cabo Verde and he is supposed to cover them. Now what? Cancelling tickets won’t help. Bottom line: Do we have any other reason to go to CV? Yes. Nuno and Susana are awaiting us to come and teach a 9-day cob intensive and build their first cob building on their future Pachamama eco permaculture homestead on São Vicente. That was going to be our pre-job perk with no expectations for students. Turned out Nuno had found 5 students the day before our arrival and was counting on more. Excitement was stirring in Mindelo about the cob workshop with the California expert. The Nuno family clan touched my Heart strongly and my boys saw that. What the fuck? Let’s go and hope for the best with Patrick.
It was VERY hard to avoid the ensuing clear signs from the Universe. After trying to contact TACV for 2 weeks about bringing our bikes on the plane with no feedback, I prayed for a smooth checkin. Adriano, the head decisionmaker guy for such issues, did not give me a smooth welcome. My fearful attitude did not help energetically. With his first negative move I reacted. I was pissed to have tried so hard to do the right thing ahead of time and felt completely helpless now. He did not know whether he could take our bikes....on this flight. Probably not. Great. And then what? Where do they go then? The angrier I reacted the worse it got. Finally he yelled back: “That’s it! We are DEFINITELY NOT taking your bikes!” For real??? The nice Senegalese female agent
whispered to me to try and work it out with him. That he really was a
nice guy. He did after all have some sex appeal. A bit heavy but a
nice change from the Senegalese men. The latin look that I had not
gotten to be around in 9 months, except fo rmy short stint with Zeca
in March. I could see his flirty nature with all the female agents and
decided to try my luck with my feigned humility in asking forgiveness
for my aggressive reaction and sharing how stressed I was. He quickly
accepted and began working in the opposite way of supporting us in
making things happens smoothly. Suddenly ALL of our bikes were
going to fly and to top it off he did not charge me for the
overweightage, especially since the bikes themselves were going to
bring 300€ into their pockets. Phew...or so I thought.
Two days before our departure, after we had re-routed our whole journey for this big, important, fruitful job for which my 5 Senegalese top cobbers had spent hard-earned money on getting passports for... he sends an email declaring financial problems which will delay the job by months and other excuses. Viva, Joia and I look at each other and powow in all seriousness. Great Spirit...what the fuck? $1500 in expenses to get to Cabo Verde and he is supposed to cover them. Now what? Cancelling tickets won’t help. Bottom line: Do we have any other reason to go to CV? Yes. Nuno and Susana are awaiting us to come and teach a 9-day cob intensive and build their first cob building on their future Pachamama eco permaculture homestead on São Vicente. That was going to be our pre-job perk with no expectations for students. Turned out Nuno had found 5 students the day before our arrival and was counting on more. Excitement was stirring in Mindelo about the cob workshop with the California expert. The Nuno family clan touched my Heart strongly and my boys saw that. What the fuck? Let’s go and hope for the best with Patrick.
It was VERY hard to avoid the ensuing clear signs from the Universe. After trying to contact TACV for 2 weeks about bringing our bikes on the plane with no feedback, I prayed for a smooth checkin. Adriano, the head decisionmaker guy for such issues, did not give me a smooth welcome. My fearful attitude did not help energetically. With his first negative move I reacted. I was pissed to have tried so hard to do the right thing ahead of time and felt completely helpless now. He did not know whether he could take our bikes....on this flight. Probably not. Great. And then what? Where do they go then? The angrier I reacted the worse it got. Finally he yelled back: “That’s it! We are DEFINITELY NOT taking your bikes!” For real??? The nice Senegalese female agent
My next step was to pay the money. Normally, in “normal” airports, a
credit card will do the trick. Not so here. Cash, baby. Only cash. OK.
Get me to an ATM. It’s 2 am and the flight takeoff time is 2:30. The
first ATM rejects my card. Something about being under maintenance.
I try again. This time something about not being able to fulfill the
request. I try again. Now it is saying that it cannot honor my card. I
walk away and someone else tries and gets his money. What?
At this point I am trying all the other ATMs in the departure AND arrival lounge to no avail. They are ALL saying, “DO NOT HONOR”. Fuck! Shit! Now what? I felt l was in a movie. Freaked out face running around with a countdown to flight takeoff time and my kids waiting anxiously. Our bikes and 3 pieces of luggage were already gone into the plane. We were the last ones. I could not get the money to pay for the excess luggage. We would not be able to fly. No credit card, no phone in charge, no nothing. Just NO FLYING tonight.
Suddenly another head agent rolls into action with his walkie talkie asking Adriano what he should do. Disembark, disembark, disembark is all I heard form the other end. All of our luggage would be taken off the plane 15 minutes before takeoff. All that hard work of plasticizing our 6 pieces, all the emotional mayhem and final conciliation and forgiveness would all be lost now by the incredible disbelief that we would NOT be leaving Dakar and Senegal just yet. We would be stuck in the airport until daylight in 4 hours....and then what? I was in shock. Now if that is not a clear message from the Great Yonder I am not sure what is. “DON’T GO!!!!!” The boys and I sat in confusion. Hard to sleep. We had so clearly made a heartful decision we were still going no matter what and.....what was going on?
At this point I am trying all the other ATMs in the departure AND arrival lounge to no avail. They are ALL saying, “DO NOT HONOR”. Fuck! Shit! Now what? I felt l was in a movie. Freaked out face running around with a countdown to flight takeoff time and my kids waiting anxiously. Our bikes and 3 pieces of luggage were already gone into the plane. We were the last ones. I could not get the money to pay for the excess luggage. We would not be able to fly. No credit card, no phone in charge, no nothing. Just NO FLYING tonight.
Suddenly another head agent rolls into action with his walkie talkie asking Adriano what he should do. Disembark, disembark, disembark is all I heard form the other end. All of our luggage would be taken off the plane 15 minutes before takeoff. All that hard work of plasticizing our 6 pieces, all the emotional mayhem and final conciliation and forgiveness would all be lost now by the incredible disbelief that we would NOT be leaving Dakar and Senegal just yet. We would be stuck in the airport until daylight in 4 hours....and then what? I was in shock. Now if that is not a clear message from the Great Yonder I am not sure what is. “DON’T GO!!!!!” The boys and I sat in confusion. Hard to sleep. We had so clearly made a heartful decision we were still going no matter what and.....what was going on?
Adriano sheepishly and very kindly passed by after the plane had
taken off reassuring us that the next flight was 2 days later at 4am
and we had to go get our tickets reissued and hopefully not have to
pay more. Where to go now for two days after we had made our grand
exit from Dakar? Again to make the story short, we decided to stay
the course and head to SV two days later at 4am with all of our stuff
again. He was there again and all went smoothly as everything was
left in the airport 5 flights up plasticized and ready to fly. At least
that was a relief. All of our baggage showed up on the other end in
one piece and our beloved Nuno was there to pick us up with a giant
flatbed truck and hot pizza!!!! Now that made up for alot of the
nightmare.
To this day, one month later, I still have not seen or spoken with Patrick. He bailed on our first Skype date and basically dropped out of all communication, after which I lost my patience and finally gave it to him as I saw it. What I did find out after sleuthing was that the man did not even buy the land he was planning this huge project on. He told me the paperwork would be done in April but Manuel, the landowner, told me there was no way he would let him build without buying the land first. Apparently he thought otherwise. All he had said to me was that Manuel wanted 70% of the land cost and he could not refuse him. What????? Não entendo! Intercultural mayhem.
Patrick is as dysfunctionally Cabo Verdian as those he ridicules and talks down about. A dreamer, from the beginning, but I was setting him straight, little by little with the reality of cost. His reality was scary. He had $40K for 18 bungalows, a large restaurant, a large home, a yoga studio, a music studio and a reception. All to be constructted by December 2016. Excuse me but not even in cheap Africa could you do that. I don’t think so. His rebuttal was bank loans. OK, maybe. Still, I stayed on and believed and trusted beyond the red flags. And now have to let go of having our travel costs paid for...lest somehow somewhere the reimbursement comes through. After a month of stress over it, writing him threatening messages, questioning his whole way of treating people and doing business...I am letting go. He is off my phone and email contacts and preferably out of my head too. The unfortunate consequence also hits VIva and Joia and the Senegalese. But my sons were counting on the money. In all honesty the job would have been a PAIN IN THE ASS, especially working with his unorganized, airy fairy mind. Works well for music but not for construction projects. Chalk it up to another lesson learned on the road.
To this day, one month later, I still have not seen or spoken with Patrick. He bailed on our first Skype date and basically dropped out of all communication, after which I lost my patience and finally gave it to him as I saw it. What I did find out after sleuthing was that the man did not even buy the land he was planning this huge project on. He told me the paperwork would be done in April but Manuel, the landowner, told me there was no way he would let him build without buying the land first. Apparently he thought otherwise. All he had said to me was that Manuel wanted 70% of the land cost and he could not refuse him. What????? Não entendo! Intercultural mayhem.
Patrick is as dysfunctionally Cabo Verdian as those he ridicules and talks down about. A dreamer, from the beginning, but I was setting him straight, little by little with the reality of cost. His reality was scary. He had $40K for 18 bungalows, a large restaurant, a large home, a yoga studio, a music studio and a reception. All to be constructted by December 2016. Excuse me but not even in cheap Africa could you do that. I don’t think so. His rebuttal was bank loans. OK, maybe. Still, I stayed on and believed and trusted beyond the red flags. And now have to let go of having our travel costs paid for...lest somehow somewhere the reimbursement comes through. After a month of stress over it, writing him threatening messages, questioning his whole way of treating people and doing business...I am letting go. He is off my phone and email contacts and preferably out of my head too. The unfortunate consequence also hits VIva and Joia and the Senegalese. But my sons were counting on the money. In all honesty the job would have been a PAIN IN THE ASS, especially working with his unorganized, airy fairy mind. Works well for music but not for construction projects. Chalk it up to another lesson learned on the road.
As I write I have completed my first smooth, unruffled, peaceful
workshop with complete walls as promised. Viva, Joia and I were put
up in a beautiful beachhouse in Calháu for 3 weeks to where we
calmly returned each day after the workshop, to prepare our food, go
swimming, relax....until the next grueling day of physical labor. When
I would get home, swim and eat, I could not move out of the bed until
the next morning. I love feeling that way, worked out, healthy, lean
and mean, eat all I want. However after 9 straight says of running a
workshop and building for 3 days after that...my body said NO MORE.
Today is 9 days later of total rest and I think I finally feel back to
normal. For the days after I felt tired and heavy from the moment I
woke up after an 8 hour sleep. It dragged on for almost a whole
week. Saying goodbye to Viva a few days ago and then Joia yesterday
has released me of ALL obliged interactions and completely unto
myself. This is when I REALLY rest. Like don’t-leave-the-house-all-
day rest. Like take naps whenever, do what I want when I want, eat or
not and play. This is my need at least 4 times a year. Total getaway
into my “black hole” as Joia calls it. My woman cave. I like it. And I
need it.
I am shacked up in the “capital” of Santo Antão in a very sleepy seemingly abandoned cobblestone town that comes alive twice a day when the ferries from São Vicente arrive with people and goods. Seems all the vans, taxis and trucks come out of I don’t know where to pick everyone and everything up and deliver them all over the island accessible to vehicles. Shiny, modern, new Yacis from Japan I believe are the vehicle of choice. Everyone is happily loaded with a destination and goods for the rural village relatives. What is special about this island is the happiness and fulfilled energy of the people here. They love their home and land and have what they need here. It’s a sweet energy. Aside from the ferry ruckus, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here except for some card-playing groups in the afternoon, schoolkids making noise and random repetitive snare drum practices that can get quite tiring. Booooooooring. But perfect for my quiet and cozy retreat. After tomorrow I will be ready for action again. Ready to sweat and grind and work these mucles on the gnarly up and down trails this island is known for.
On another note, I have decided to head back to Europe, la Belle France of my Heart, in August. A spontaneously-organized workshop replacement of the one that was supposed to be held on supposedly
I am shacked up in the “capital” of Santo Antão in a very sleepy seemingly abandoned cobblestone town that comes alive twice a day when the ferries from São Vicente arrive with people and goods. Seems all the vans, taxis and trucks come out of I don’t know where to pick everyone and everything up and deliver them all over the island accessible to vehicles. Shiny, modern, new Yacis from Japan I believe are the vehicle of choice. Everyone is happily loaded with a destination and goods for the rural village relatives. What is special about this island is the happiness and fulfilled energy of the people here. They love their home and land and have what they need here. It’s a sweet energy. Aside from the ferry ruckus, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here except for some card-playing groups in the afternoon, schoolkids making noise and random repetitive snare drum practices that can get quite tiring. Booooooooring. But perfect for my quiet and cozy retreat. After tomorrow I will be ready for action again. Ready to sweat and grind and work these mucles on the gnarly up and down trails this island is known for.
On another note, I have decided to head back to Europe, la Belle France of my Heart, in August. A spontaneously-organized workshop replacement of the one that was supposed to be held on supposedly
Patrick’s land...is happening in Sauxillanges. Never been there and
don’t know the owner in person...but a friend of a friend and so on.
I have 4 signups so far which is better than I had for the other one after 4 months online. Clearly that one was not meant to be. And this one is. We will arrive July 14th on Bastille Day in Paris. A bit freaky but what the heck. La France! La Belle France!
In the meantime the successful workshop was filmed on National television and I became a bit of a celebrity as people recognized me, even the bank teller. A young environmental engineer from Santiago contacted me with a burning desire to do a workshop there and since then has not stopped making it happen with funding and all! She is knocking on everyone’s door, from government departments to NGO’s including the UN. Rarely have I had the synergy of working with a host who is just as energized and fearless in making it happen as I am. Neiva is her name. It seems my hosts are now becoming the hosts I need. Perhaps I had to suffer a while, learn and evolve. My boys have been mirrors the whole way, sometimes to my annoyance for sure, but together we have done lots of learning on this journey. Ho!
Santiago Success
The largest island of Cabo Verde and the capital, Praia, is home to our last African workshop for now. I book it in a tiny plane on Wednesday and leave Viva with both of our bikes and most of the luggage heading over by an 8-hour boat ride loaded with Motrivine pills. The Cabo Verdeans are not used to boat travel and tend to become ill shotly after the departure, prompting nausea around them. They are kind of messy about it too, surrendering to the powers of the ocean rhythms without much resistance. Poor Viva got a bit splattered on the last ride from São Vicente to São Nicolau which marked him a bit and so this ride he would be determined to be under the influence of the sleep-inducing Motrivine tablets.
I feel like somewhat of a star arriving at the airport and looking for my host. Lightly loaded (a very rare feeling if ever), I feel free and easy, passing through with no hassles. Neiva and I spot each other quickly, a big hug, a short face-to-face checkout, and we’re in business. She’s an on-it organizer and my favorite kind of energy to work with. She’s also a young Black Cabo Verdian woman and the mutual excitement that was transmitted through our incessant daily Viber chats is for real
I have 4 signups so far which is better than I had for the other one after 4 months online. Clearly that one was not meant to be. And this one is. We will arrive July 14th on Bastille Day in Paris. A bit freaky but what the heck. La France! La Belle France!
In the meantime the successful workshop was filmed on National television and I became a bit of a celebrity as people recognized me, even the bank teller. A young environmental engineer from Santiago contacted me with a burning desire to do a workshop there and since then has not stopped making it happen with funding and all! She is knocking on everyone’s door, from government departments to NGO’s including the UN. Rarely have I had the synergy of working with a host who is just as energized and fearless in making it happen as I am. Neiva is her name. It seems my hosts are now becoming the hosts I need. Perhaps I had to suffer a while, learn and evolve. My boys have been mirrors the whole way, sometimes to my annoyance for sure, but together we have done lots of learning on this journey. Ho!
Santiago Success
The largest island of Cabo Verde and the capital, Praia, is home to our last African workshop for now. I book it in a tiny plane on Wednesday and leave Viva with both of our bikes and most of the luggage heading over by an 8-hour boat ride loaded with Motrivine pills. The Cabo Verdeans are not used to boat travel and tend to become ill shotly after the departure, prompting nausea around them. They are kind of messy about it too, surrendering to the powers of the ocean rhythms without much resistance. Poor Viva got a bit splattered on the last ride from São Vicente to São Nicolau which marked him a bit and so this ride he would be determined to be under the influence of the sleep-inducing Motrivine tablets.
I feel like somewhat of a star arriving at the airport and looking for my host. Lightly loaded (a very rare feeling if ever), I feel free and easy, passing through with no hassles. Neiva and I spot each other quickly, a big hug, a short face-to-face checkout, and we’re in business. She’s an on-it organizer and my favorite kind of energy to work with. She’s also a young Black Cabo Verdian woman and the mutual excitement that was transmitted through our incessant daily Viber chats is for real
now. We flow smoothly from our techno-mediated relationship to the
real thing and I am conforted to know my intuitive desire to
collaborate with her was a good decision. It wasn’t even really a
decision. It was naturally decided by the Great Forces that be.
Neiva is a delicious being. Her smile lights up the room. Her laughter
is infectious, even when you have no idea what she’s laughing about.
She is on “manifest mode” 24-7. She has read “The Secret” and that is
really the underlying language of our connection and flow. I am a bit
surprised as she is from these tiny isolated islands, but, her time in
Portugal studying Environmental Engineering together with her juicy
zest for learning and growing, brought this into her life. She attracted
it. And that’s how she runs. She still has some non-trust traces in
her pushiness, she’s only 28, but if she keeps working on it she will
become quite a manifester in the most gracious of ways. More based
on Trust than Fear. Together we encourage mutually. We are a good
team. I surrender to her lead and trust it will all work out.
A week and a half later, 1/5 of her future cob pleasure house is built by the hands and hearts of 13 young motivated locals. Viva and I realize that this, our last African workshop, has been the most successful. Not easy...but with the large number at it daily, we managed to finish what we wanted to finish: full plastered walls with roof connectors, a cob floor base, sculptures, bottles in the wall and satisfied students. Every day the humble and sweet Conceição hikes up the hill with a big bowl of food on her head accompanied by one of her daughters, signalling the break for our communal lunch: rice, beans, a few carrots, collards, onions and all too often...shreds of distressed pork meat and gristle with a few hairs left in for good measure. Viva and I are quite hungry and try to avoid the disturbing flesh chunks but the flavour and smell permeates everything. Day after day it got heavy on the system and the gnarly 5am pig shreaks during the week did not help.
Eleven young males and two young females made up our troop of student builders. I do well with the Afro cultures with my youthful flirtiness, music on the site and joyfulness. I don’t have much patience for the tardy late-night drinkers though their amusing comedy acts help to compensate for their untimeliness. As if I should talk anyway...but in this culture I am quite Swiss. All in all we have a good time which is essential for getting the mud on the walls. As always the last two sculpting and plastering days bring joy and
A week and a half later, 1/5 of her future cob pleasure house is built by the hands and hearts of 13 young motivated locals. Viva and I realize that this, our last African workshop, has been the most successful. Not easy...but with the large number at it daily, we managed to finish what we wanted to finish: full plastered walls with roof connectors, a cob floor base, sculptures, bottles in the wall and satisfied students. Every day the humble and sweet Conceição hikes up the hill with a big bowl of food on her head accompanied by one of her daughters, signalling the break for our communal lunch: rice, beans, a few carrots, collards, onions and all too often...shreds of distressed pork meat and gristle with a few hairs left in for good measure. Viva and I are quite hungry and try to avoid the disturbing flesh chunks but the flavour and smell permeates everything. Day after day it got heavy on the system and the gnarly 5am pig shreaks during the week did not help.
Eleven young males and two young females made up our troop of student builders. I do well with the Afro cultures with my youthful flirtiness, music on the site and joyfulness. I don’t have much patience for the tardy late-night drinkers though their amusing comedy acts help to compensate for their untimeliness. As if I should talk anyway...but in this culture I am quite Swiss. All in all we have a good time which is essential for getting the mud on the walls. As always the last two sculpting and plastering days bring joy and
lightness and relief from the cob grind. Connection to the inner artist
reveals another side of each student. Usually it’s the productive
grinders who take the longest to find their creative side, while the
ones who have dilly-dallied trying to disguise their low output of wall
volume are on fire with sculptural ideas. To each his own. Everyone
shines somewhere along the way.
Not enough celebration here though. The last day of diploma presentation brings out only half the students. They are whooped and onto the next thing...planting corn and collards and manioc and sweet potato for the upcoming rains. They are supposed to stay on and keep building after the workshop is over, but I later find out that they have mostly abandoned the project. Neiva tried hard to keep them inspired, talking about creating a cooperative of cob builders for the next projects, after they have completed her house of course, for which they will be paid. But they have lost trust and perhaps are feeling used? I am not sure what is going on in their Cabo Verdian minds. It seems to me though that they have other things calling and unless the money is upfront, she will have to finish the house herself, which I don’t doubt for a minute that she can do. A month later I receive pictures of another1/3 of the walls done and the Spanish-tiled roof erected. She has finagled her way with credit upon credit and, after moving into her new cob home...she will begin to pay back the stores and all the people who have given of their support in a myriad of ways, including me, with her monthly saving of 200€ in rent. I can relate. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, hopefully without stepping on too many people and with Grace, and if you end up taking care of your debts and paybacks, your Karma is still intact.
TACV- Worst Airline on the Planet!
Another airline nightmare. Everjets. Have you ever heard of Everjets? Some Porto-based airline. Up at 4:30am, sleep-walking our bike boxes and luggage into the back of Andreas’ truck and off we go along the early-morning streets of the sleepy beach and surf town of Tarrafal on Santiago, Cabo Verde. Heavy-set large-bellied Cabo Verdian women jogging in the dark along the sidewalk. The 6-foot long carcass of a recently-slaughtered swine is hanging on a street corner, warm and palpating flesh, for all to have to see. A light drizzle, the first I’ve yet seen here, covers the windshield. Low-lying clouds waver over the green terraced valleys below. This island is very
Not enough celebration here though. The last day of diploma presentation brings out only half the students. They are whooped and onto the next thing...planting corn and collards and manioc and sweet potato for the upcoming rains. They are supposed to stay on and keep building after the workshop is over, but I later find out that they have mostly abandoned the project. Neiva tried hard to keep them inspired, talking about creating a cooperative of cob builders for the next projects, after they have completed her house of course, for which they will be paid. But they have lost trust and perhaps are feeling used? I am not sure what is going on in their Cabo Verdian minds. It seems to me though that they have other things calling and unless the money is upfront, she will have to finish the house herself, which I don’t doubt for a minute that she can do. A month later I receive pictures of another1/3 of the walls done and the Spanish-tiled roof erected. She has finagled her way with credit upon credit and, after moving into her new cob home...she will begin to pay back the stores and all the people who have given of their support in a myriad of ways, including me, with her monthly saving of 200€ in rent. I can relate. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, hopefully without stepping on too many people and with Grace, and if you end up taking care of your debts and paybacks, your Karma is still intact.
TACV- Worst Airline on the Planet!
Another airline nightmare. Everjets. Have you ever heard of Everjets? Some Porto-based airline. Up at 4:30am, sleep-walking our bike boxes and luggage into the back of Andreas’ truck and off we go along the early-morning streets of the sleepy beach and surf town of Tarrafal on Santiago, Cabo Verde. Heavy-set large-bellied Cabo Verdian women jogging in the dark along the sidewalk. The 6-foot long carcass of a recently-slaughtered swine is hanging on a street corner, warm and palpating flesh, for all to have to see. A light drizzle, the first I’ve yet seen here, covers the windshield. Low-lying clouds waver over the green terraced valleys below. This island is very
topographically-inclined with something happening at all visual
perspectives. Andreas clearly loves his 7-year adopted residency
here. The swerving combined with late-night buttery polenta meal
and 4.5 hours of sleep leave my belly queasy. I have to lean forward,
close my eyes, and just breathe. I regret the extra 3 hours of hairpin
driving I subscribed to in order to get a dependable easy ride to the
airport. I got a beautiful hand-made basket from Solange, his new
flame, another Aries sister I jelled with immediately. A cross between
Guinea Bissau, Cabo Verde and Portugal, she is a gorgeous artsy lean
and independent Spirit. Like me. My mirror. Astrology is so right on.
She won’t go far with Andreas’ Piscean energy. Pisces and Aries, very
poor match. I let him know gently. He is onto it already.
We get to the airport at a prompt 7:15am...plenty of time! With our 2 giant oversized bike boxes, Viva’s metal framed backpack and my giant soft duffle sack, we gingerly and cautiously head in to the airport, trying to stay cool for the unknown ahead. It’s always an unknown in our situation. We scout out the check-in clerks’ faces to see which one looks the most easy-going, is smiley, and relaxed. They both look similar. We opt for the leaner one with a tall pom pom hairdo, the most popular here.
As we look around us we notice that the other people on line have small single suitcases. I do recall the TACV website ticket summary mentioning something about one 15kg suitcase allowed on this promotional ticket. I choose to think other thoughts and only expect the best. My new mantra: “Expect the best!” is becoming more and more habitual. It’s our turn now. It looks like people are being rejected for overweight luggage and going back to take stuff out and returning to the line. We approach and Viva discreetly and thankfully leans over and reminds me to smile and be nice. The smile doesn’t come so easily in these anxious moments but I manage to pop one out at the start setting things on a good wave.
The agent reminds me that we get one piece of 50 lbs each. I nod. I know what the rule is according to the website. One bike costs 100€. She begins to total our excess weight and for a moment I think we’re in the money and with my momentary forgetfulness think she’s allowing us 2 bags each at 50 lbs. At 15€ an extra kg I start to calculate...will it be less than the 200€ I was prepared to dish out?
We get to the airport at a prompt 7:15am...plenty of time! With our 2 giant oversized bike boxes, Viva’s metal framed backpack and my giant soft duffle sack, we gingerly and cautiously head in to the airport, trying to stay cool for the unknown ahead. It’s always an unknown in our situation. We scout out the check-in clerks’ faces to see which one looks the most easy-going, is smiley, and relaxed. They both look similar. We opt for the leaner one with a tall pom pom hairdo, the most popular here.
As we look around us we notice that the other people on line have small single suitcases. I do recall the TACV website ticket summary mentioning something about one 15kg suitcase allowed on this promotional ticket. I choose to think other thoughts and only expect the best. My new mantra: “Expect the best!” is becoming more and more habitual. It’s our turn now. It looks like people are being rejected for overweight luggage and going back to take stuff out and returning to the line. We approach and Viva discreetly and thankfully leans over and reminds me to smile and be nice. The smile doesn’t come so easily in these anxious moments but I manage to pop one out at the start setting things on a good wave.
The agent reminds me that we get one piece of 50 lbs each. I nod. I know what the rule is according to the website. One bike costs 100€. She begins to total our excess weight and for a moment I think we’re in the money and with my momentary forgetfulness think she’s allowing us 2 bags each at 50 lbs. At 15€ an extra kg I start to calculate...will it be less than the 200€ I was prepared to dish out?
I remain silent in hope. Her final tally is a cool 460€ or $700, which
she emits with a straight face. Really now? $700 in excess baggage
charges on a $150 ticket? I don’t think so.
I equally calmly respond that to my knowledge bikes cost a fixed price
of 100€. She accepts my information easily which makes me wonder
if she was trying to pull one over me. That’s quite a wad of cash to
pocket on the sly, if possible here. My unusually soft-spoken
“complaint” goes over nicely. I like it. I am sent to pay the bill at the
TACV office where, once again, the uninformed agent wants to charge
me something to the tune of 600€. He doesn’t seem evil-intentioned,
just ignorant of hos own employer’s policies. Once again I remind
him of the rules very confidently, which he easily accepts and replaces
his erred calculations with my information to arrive at a number 2/3
lower. It’s a chunk of change but I am prepared to pay it. He also tell
me that the plane is 2 hours late. Cool. We don’t have to rush.
Everything is pretty smooth so far. When we get to the waiting room, it is clear that the plane has not arrived. We settle in with our computers and phones awaiting the plane. At 12:30pm the EVERJET plane arrives at Mandela International Airport in Praia. Viva and I, completely oblivious to the calls, almost miss the plane but for the thoughtfulness of our check-in agent who was running around looking for us. Polish and Portuguese stewardesses accompanied by Portuguese and Guadeloupean pilots greet us. Once we are on the plane we are told that the plane will be stopping in Porto for a technical matter, and then in Amsterdam, before arriving in Paris. The tickets we have are for a direct non-stop trip to Paris. Other passengers are wondering about these extra stops. The only explanation is that they had mechanical difficulties in Sal and could not depart until today, and thus all the Amsterdam-bound passengers from yesterday need to be brought “home” today, with us. Hmmmm. Sounds weird and fishy and not cool. As I start calculating flight times, waiting times and time differences...I realize we will get to Charles de Gaulle at 11pm or later and that we will not catch the last train to my friend Claire’s house, at 11:50pm. I hear the other passengers chit chat worriedly and angrily that they were not told about this change and besides they paid for a non-stop flight and would also miss their train or not be able to contact their friends and family waiting for them at 6:30pm. Hmmmm. So what can be done? I ask the stewardesses “What’s up? Why the change and what time will we arrive then?” They all seem to just try and calm us down without
Everything is pretty smooth so far. When we get to the waiting room, it is clear that the plane has not arrived. We settle in with our computers and phones awaiting the plane. At 12:30pm the EVERJET plane arrives at Mandela International Airport in Praia. Viva and I, completely oblivious to the calls, almost miss the plane but for the thoughtfulness of our check-in agent who was running around looking for us. Polish and Portuguese stewardesses accompanied by Portuguese and Guadeloupean pilots greet us. Once we are on the plane we are told that the plane will be stopping in Porto for a technical matter, and then in Amsterdam, before arriving in Paris. The tickets we have are for a direct non-stop trip to Paris. Other passengers are wondering about these extra stops. The only explanation is that they had mechanical difficulties in Sal and could not depart until today, and thus all the Amsterdam-bound passengers from yesterday need to be brought “home” today, with us. Hmmmm. Sounds weird and fishy and not cool. As I start calculating flight times, waiting times and time differences...I realize we will get to Charles de Gaulle at 11pm or later and that we will not catch the last train to my friend Claire’s house, at 11:50pm. I hear the other passengers chit chat worriedly and angrily that they were not told about this change and besides they paid for a non-stop flight and would also miss their train or not be able to contact their friends and family waiting for them at 6:30pm. Hmmmm. So what can be done? I ask the stewardesses “What’s up? Why the change and what time will we arrive then?” They all seem to just try and calm us down without
direct true answers. Have they been told to ignore our questions?
What do they know that we don’t?
As the plane continues on its way, and we are fed, the sun is setting. Our time of arrival in Paris is 6:30pm local time. We land in Porto at 7pm local time. One hour later we are off to Amsterdam. We arrive in Amsterdam at 11pm local time. After the Amsterdam-bound passengers disembark, the rest of the passengers are wondering why we are not moving on and questioning the crew about how they will get home now that we will be arriving so late and who is going to pay for the taxis and hotels needed??? The staff is clearly nervous. The stewardesses are turning red and hot and trying to calm people down. Amsterdam Airport staff are making phone calls. We are told by the captain, after 2 hours in the plane and NO food or drink since lunchtime, that the plane cannot continue to Paris. It will have to stay in Amsterdam and so will all the passengers. What????? He says that legally he cannot fly a plane for more than 11 hours and he has been flying for 14 hours. Hmmmm. Apparently we will be staying in hotels tonight.
After another hour, the staff calls all the people travelling alone forward. All these people will disembark first since the hotel they have chosen only has single rooms. Weird. They ask my son and I if we want to separate. We say no. (Luckily, as we find out the next day that all the solo people have to stay another unnanounced day more) All these people disembark. Now all the families with small children, pregnant lady, elderly and others are left. Two French guys decide to get off and take a train that they will charge TACV for. Everyone is hot, weary, tired, mad, impatient and totally confused. After another hour later (3am) of secretive giggly discussions up at the hatch between the airport staff and the plane personnel the rest of us zombies are given a blue Transit card and sent to a hotel. But first we have to find our way through the very confusing Schiphol airport to the bus. None of the Cabo Verdean passengers speak English or Dutch. Viva and I have to lead them through the airport and many of them are so slow, with their half-asleep stragglig posse of kids and elderly parent, that they get lost. Everything is closed and signs are in English and we have no idea how everyone will find the way. We get to the very hard-to-find bus stop and find a driver there pulling up his bus for the group. With cigarette in mouth the bus driver gingerly opens the hatches and waits. Viva and I and the only two other well- seasoned English-speaking travellers have assigned ourselves to be
As the plane continues on its way, and we are fed, the sun is setting. Our time of arrival in Paris is 6:30pm local time. We land in Porto at 7pm local time. One hour later we are off to Amsterdam. We arrive in Amsterdam at 11pm local time. After the Amsterdam-bound passengers disembark, the rest of the passengers are wondering why we are not moving on and questioning the crew about how they will get home now that we will be arriving so late and who is going to pay for the taxis and hotels needed??? The staff is clearly nervous. The stewardesses are turning red and hot and trying to calm people down. Amsterdam Airport staff are making phone calls. We are told by the captain, after 2 hours in the plane and NO food or drink since lunchtime, that the plane cannot continue to Paris. It will have to stay in Amsterdam and so will all the passengers. What????? He says that legally he cannot fly a plane for more than 11 hours and he has been flying for 14 hours. Hmmmm. Apparently we will be staying in hotels tonight.
After another hour, the staff calls all the people travelling alone forward. All these people will disembark first since the hotel they have chosen only has single rooms. Weird. They ask my son and I if we want to separate. We say no. (Luckily, as we find out the next day that all the solo people have to stay another unnanounced day more) All these people disembark. Now all the families with small children, pregnant lady, elderly and others are left. Two French guys decide to get off and take a train that they will charge TACV for. Everyone is hot, weary, tired, mad, impatient and totally confused. After another hour later (3am) of secretive giggly discussions up at the hatch between the airport staff and the plane personnel the rest of us zombies are given a blue Transit card and sent to a hotel. But first we have to find our way through the very confusing Schiphol airport to the bus. None of the Cabo Verdean passengers speak English or Dutch. Viva and I have to lead them through the airport and many of them are so slow, with their half-asleep stragglig posse of kids and elderly parent, that they get lost. Everything is closed and signs are in English and we have no idea how everyone will find the way. We get to the very hard-to-find bus stop and find a driver there pulling up his bus for the group. With cigarette in mouth the bus driver gingerly opens the hatches and waits. Viva and I and the only two other well- seasoned English-speaking travellers have assigned ourselves to be
the herders of the lost Souls in the dead of the Amsterdam airport
night. It’s 4am now and everyone finds almost everyone (some people
simply went missing) and we are relieved to be taken care of by
European customer service now and on a functional bus going to a
fancy hotel. Great, except it is now 4:30am. We are told the flight the
next day is at 1:30pm and we have to leave the hotel at 11am. So
much for lounging in our cushy eco-bedding, luxuriating in the king-
sized bathtub with hot water (a first in 9 months!) and extending our
all-you-can-eat brunch for seconds and thirds. It all had to be
condensed but I made sure to get it in for who knew what was to
come next and when our next meal would be, as we were still in the
hands of TACV and Everjets. Scary!
When the Flight VR009 family gets to the airport in two busloads, everyone is too scared to make a move until both groups have been reunited. It’s July 15th, the peak of summer travel is on and the airport is a zoo of tired, anxious, impatient and hungry travellers. The crowded hard-to-get-through TACV line takes us to check-in agents that are totally uninformed and confused as to our situation and how they will get us on that plane. Luckily for our passenger family, they have us and a couple of other don’t-take-no-shit aggressive types to push and fight through the complete mayhem. We are moved from one long serpentine line to another one on the other side and all the TACV sheep passengers have to be herded over. VIva and I survey the situation and in doing so I pass a horrible nauseating stench of rotten fish emanating from one passenger’s luggage. She refuses to open her suitcase. Those around her suffer in silence and breathe through their mouths. Hmmmm, little did I realize the effect her fish-juiced luggage would have on mine and everyone’s in the days ahead....
We are possibly now on the way to something real. The multiracial Dutch agents kindly respond to my inquiries and are working hard for a positive outcome. I trust them. Viva and I are the last in line with our giant bike boxes turned vertical and barely holding together after all the back and forth. At least we have them, right? Nothing is for certain until we have our boarding passes in hand and FRAGILE stickers all over the bike boxes before waving them goodbye into the deep, dark recesses beyond the rolling carpet curtain. An elderly Dutch-Indian agent with a calm nature assures us all is well. If he only knew the airline we were handing ourselves over to once again.
When the Flight VR009 family gets to the airport in two busloads, everyone is too scared to make a move until both groups have been reunited. It’s July 15th, the peak of summer travel is on and the airport is a zoo of tired, anxious, impatient and hungry travellers. The crowded hard-to-get-through TACV line takes us to check-in agents that are totally uninformed and confused as to our situation and how they will get us on that plane. Luckily for our passenger family, they have us and a couple of other don’t-take-no-shit aggressive types to push and fight through the complete mayhem. We are moved from one long serpentine line to another one on the other side and all the TACV sheep passengers have to be herded over. VIva and I survey the situation and in doing so I pass a horrible nauseating stench of rotten fish emanating from one passenger’s luggage. She refuses to open her suitcase. Those around her suffer in silence and breathe through their mouths. Hmmmm, little did I realize the effect her fish-juiced luggage would have on mine and everyone’s in the days ahead....
We are possibly now on the way to something real. The multiracial Dutch agents kindly respond to my inquiries and are working hard for a positive outcome. I trust them. Viva and I are the last in line with our giant bike boxes turned vertical and barely holding together after all the back and forth. At least we have them, right? Nothing is for certain until we have our boarding passes in hand and FRAGILE stickers all over the bike boxes before waving them goodbye into the deep, dark recesses beyond the rolling carpet curtain. An elderly Dutch-Indian agent with a calm nature assures us all is well. If he only knew the airline we were handing ourselves over to once again.
Feeling a bit more sure of reaching Paris on the same day, we peppily
begin our trek to the very last and farthest possible gate in the
terminal. Scanning the VR009 family on the bus, it is clear we are not
complete, aside from the ones who went missing last night and the
“single” ones who ended up having to stay yet another day! We wait
yet another hour on the bus, as the poor same Dutch agents, now
looking haggard and at the end of their ropes, try to locate the newly-
missing passengers. Three shuffle their way to the bus, then two
more. Apparently they were sent to a gate at the other end and God
only knows how they figured out their error! Simply amazing! What
more could happen???
Well...more could. We mount the plane, getting that much closer to our destination only an hour away by plane, normally. The same pilot and stewardesses that dealt with us last night are present, refreshed and renewed. Kind of weird the whole thing and no doubt a bad dream scenario or crappy movie. Viva and I board and sit together. There are a few new innocent faces on the plane who have clearly not lived the ordeal with us. They are fresh, happy and energized for their kitesurfing vacation to Sal. One German woman used to live in Cabo Verde and when she hears the background story to the sad, disheveled and worn faces of her co-passengers, she nods in compassionate understanding. “Ja, ja...I know zees stories.” My horrific details do not surprise her. The questions still is: “When will we get to Paris? And will they detour us to Sal first?” At this point nothing that ludicrous would surprise me from this mentally-retarded airline. Not even taking us to Brazil first, which is some of the passengers’ final destination.
Everyone is seated and the pilot begins the engine. Stewardesses are prim and proper as they can be, readying themselves for their millionth safety spiel when, suddenly, a young mod female passenger in leather jacket, sexy sunglasses and diamond earrings tears out of her seat and screams out that her luggage is not on the plane. She can see it in the pile of luggage sitting untouched in the trailers 50 feet away from the plane. Others rip off their seatbelts to look, including myself. “My suitcase is also there!” “Hey so is mine!” “There are your bicycle boxes!” someone reports to me as I am on the other side stretching my neck out to try and identify our bags. Once again, chaos breaks loose on the plane. People are screaming, shouting, the instigator is bawling in heaves, children are jumping up
Well...more could. We mount the plane, getting that much closer to our destination only an hour away by plane, normally. The same pilot and stewardesses that dealt with us last night are present, refreshed and renewed. Kind of weird the whole thing and no doubt a bad dream scenario or crappy movie. Viva and I board and sit together. There are a few new innocent faces on the plane who have clearly not lived the ordeal with us. They are fresh, happy and energized for their kitesurfing vacation to Sal. One German woman used to live in Cabo Verde and when she hears the background story to the sad, disheveled and worn faces of her co-passengers, she nods in compassionate understanding. “Ja, ja...I know zees stories.” My horrific details do not surprise her. The questions still is: “When will we get to Paris? And will they detour us to Sal first?” At this point nothing that ludicrous would surprise me from this mentally-retarded airline. Not even taking us to Brazil first, which is some of the passengers’ final destination.
Everyone is seated and the pilot begins the engine. Stewardesses are prim and proper as they can be, readying themselves for their millionth safety spiel when, suddenly, a young mod female passenger in leather jacket, sexy sunglasses and diamond earrings tears out of her seat and screams out that her luggage is not on the plane. She can see it in the pile of luggage sitting untouched in the trailers 50 feet away from the plane. Others rip off their seatbelts to look, including myself. “My suitcase is also there!” “Hey so is mine!” “There are your bicycle boxes!” someone reports to me as I am on the other side stretching my neck out to try and identify our bags. Once again, chaos breaks loose on the plane. People are screaming, shouting, the instigator is bawling in heaves, children are jumping up
and down, the stewardesses are soon struggling to breathe through
the angry horde surrounding them and demanding to get their
luggage on or get them off the plane, IMMEDIATELY. It seems
everyone’s luggage, at least belonging to our VR009 family, will be
left on the tarmac for no understandable sensible reason that noone,
including the stewardesses and pilot, can explain. What the f_____?
Incredible! Just when it could all have ended smoothly. I think TACV
is cursed from another life. I mean how much crazier can this story
get? I don’t even have to make anything up! It sells itself.
At this point I am pretty pissed off too and up there with the others yelling at the stewardesses to get our luggage onto the plane. The instigator is totally out of control now and in tears, like a big soap opera, falling in a heap on th floor. I am also laughing incredulously as I stand back and watch what reminds me of a scene from “Airplane”. Suddenly the dark and slick-haired short and skinny Portuguese pilot with a large beak exits his control station in disbelief but apparently ready to act. Using his voice to no avail, I watch as he reaches for the megaphone and threatens the passengers with the police if they don’t shut up and sit down immediately. I am taken aback at how submissive the response is. I guess this is when you know you are dealing with a plane of Third World passengers. The mere mention of “police” triggers their greatest fears. A plane of Americans or Europeans would NOT react this way, and then again would an airline dare treat a planeload of European or American passengers with such disrespect, inefficiency, manipulation, deceit, abuse, and disorganization? Never in my 52 years have I experienced such a ridiculously and poorly-run uncomfortable travel experience. My son was convinced it was due to our very economical tickets but if anything we were lucky as others had paid 3 times more!!!!
The story continues. Sorry. The plane becomes quiet now as we back out and say goodbye to our poor luggage with despondency and surrender. Until we meet again...who knows when and where? We all take a big breath of letting go, once again, as the plane readies for takeoff in the pink, violet and magenta dusk skies of Holland. Let’s now just get there please, in one piece.
We do. Phew. Cause that could be the joke end to this melodramatic adventure is that we never get there. HAHA. Not so funny. We arrive in Paris exactly 24 hours later than our scheduled arrival date and time. Not one of our VR009 passenger family’s luggage appears out
At this point I am pretty pissed off too and up there with the others yelling at the stewardesses to get our luggage onto the plane. The instigator is totally out of control now and in tears, like a big soap opera, falling in a heap on th floor. I am also laughing incredulously as I stand back and watch what reminds me of a scene from “Airplane”. Suddenly the dark and slick-haired short and skinny Portuguese pilot with a large beak exits his control station in disbelief but apparently ready to act. Using his voice to no avail, I watch as he reaches for the megaphone and threatens the passengers with the police if they don’t shut up and sit down immediately. I am taken aback at how submissive the response is. I guess this is when you know you are dealing with a plane of Third World passengers. The mere mention of “police” triggers their greatest fears. A plane of Americans or Europeans would NOT react this way, and then again would an airline dare treat a planeload of European or American passengers with such disrespect, inefficiency, manipulation, deceit, abuse, and disorganization? Never in my 52 years have I experienced such a ridiculously and poorly-run uncomfortable travel experience. My son was convinced it was due to our very economical tickets but if anything we were lucky as others had paid 3 times more!!!!
The story continues. Sorry. The plane becomes quiet now as we back out and say goodbye to our poor luggage with despondency and surrender. Until we meet again...who knows when and where? We all take a big breath of letting go, once again, as the plane readies for takeoff in the pink, violet and magenta dusk skies of Holland. Let’s now just get there please, in one piece.
We do. Phew. Cause that could be the joke end to this melodramatic adventure is that we never get there. HAHA. Not so funny. We arrive in Paris exactly 24 hours later than our scheduled arrival date and time. Not one of our VR009 passenger family’s luggage appears out
of the rolling carpet abyss. Not one. Well, I guess everyone’s luggage
was still there in Amsterdam in the trailers we saw. Amazing. So
what the heck was in the plane’s cargo hold then??? Well I know for
sure that the pilots’ and stewardesses’ bags made it onto the plane as
I overheard before all hell had broken loose. And perhaps the
fortunate innocent newbies’ stuff too. And that’s it!
Happy to have even arrived in Paris now, and to be moving on, we all
file like poor abused sheep to the LOST LUGGAGE counter to
helplessly fill out our claim forms. Feeling a glimmer of hope now in
the hands of the French who emanate assurance and procedural
knowledge, we go through the motions. With claim number in hand,
the best we can get, we head to the metro with our bikes and light
weight, to find our way into Paris and Claire’s house, adjusting quickly
to the 14€ metro fee without a word. We are happy to be awaited with
love and comfort and food.
Four days later at 1AM my cell phone rings. Our luggage has arrived. The frantic delivery man pulls the disheveled cartons out followed by the sad bags. Everything reeks of rotten fish. My bike seat, handlebars and just about every item I have. Viva’s was in 2 boxes and had a layer of protection. Wow. The final cherry on top. Unfortunately I am too excited and zonked to have the driver mention the fishy luggage state on the final receipt. I know it’s not his fault, but these are the details that make the difference when you are wanting financial compensation in the end. Another lesson learned.
Today we are 8 weeks from the incident and after submitting all the requisite documents in a whirlwind marathon day of biking through Paris with Viva looking for the very discrete shabby TACV office in the 1st Arrondissement...and being assured by Mr. Jean-Remy Santos that my file would be attended to asap and for sure in the next 2 weeks, I am still waiting. What do you know? I have found out that there are some very definite laws addressing excessive flight delays and lost luggage of this type which amount to 600€ in compensation at the least per person. I have let them know. As is my usual style when wronged, I won’t let it go.
Three months later, nothing happening, I decide to give it one more shot and write the woman who is the Sales Director for Holland and France, Senhora Eloise Gomes, and cc the infamous do-nothing TACV crew of names I have been corresponding with to no avail. Within an hour a response comes. This lady has definitely grown up in Europe as her customer service shows. Within one week I have 1 free round-trip ticket in hand, from Europe to CV and back. Well? Worth the hassle and 5 minutes a day of email time? I would say so. Now let's see what happens with Legal Heroes to the rescue. I have managed to dig up the names and emails of at least 20 of the 80 passengers on the flight in exchange for no commission deducted from my and VIva's 600€ compensation each. The footwork, baby, all about the footwork.
Four days later at 1AM my cell phone rings. Our luggage has arrived. The frantic delivery man pulls the disheveled cartons out followed by the sad bags. Everything reeks of rotten fish. My bike seat, handlebars and just about every item I have. Viva’s was in 2 boxes and had a layer of protection. Wow. The final cherry on top. Unfortunately I am too excited and zonked to have the driver mention the fishy luggage state on the final receipt. I know it’s not his fault, but these are the details that make the difference when you are wanting financial compensation in the end. Another lesson learned.
Today we are 8 weeks from the incident and after submitting all the requisite documents in a whirlwind marathon day of biking through Paris with Viva looking for the very discrete shabby TACV office in the 1st Arrondissement...and being assured by Mr. Jean-Remy Santos that my file would be attended to asap and for sure in the next 2 weeks, I am still waiting. What do you know? I have found out that there are some very definite laws addressing excessive flight delays and lost luggage of this type which amount to 600€ in compensation at the least per person. I have let them know. As is my usual style when wronged, I won’t let it go.
Three months later, nothing happening, I decide to give it one more shot and write the woman who is the Sales Director for Holland and France, Senhora Eloise Gomes, and cc the infamous do-nothing TACV crew of names I have been corresponding with to no avail. Within an hour a response comes. This lady has definitely grown up in Europe as her customer service shows. Within one week I have 1 free round-trip ticket in hand, from Europe to CV and back. Well? Worth the hassle and 5 minutes a day of email time? I would say so. Now let's see what happens with Legal Heroes to the rescue. I have managed to dig up the names and emails of at least 20 of the 80 passengers on the flight in exchange for no commission deducted from my and VIva's 600€ compensation each. The footwork, baby, all about the footwork.
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