October 22, 2001

I am getting more sleep now, but it’s not the quality or quantity I was used to in San Francisco. In the early morning hours before I woke up today, I had this lucid dream that Peace Corps Cape Verde had been evacuated. The dream was lucid because I couldn’t tell whether I was dreaming – was I in bed or was in a hotel in the USA? I remember being so confused. First, I was at a meeting where all volunteers heard news of the evacuation of PC Senegal, and then we were in a hotel. I asked where I was, and there was this reply that we were in some state like Iowa or Colorado. Everyone had been evacuated due to the terrorist threat, and Peace Corps was paying for volunteers to fly home or to any destination of their choice. Many volunteers had left PC and remained in Cape Verde, vacationing in this one beach town. Others were deciding whether to fly home from this hotel. I was so confused about how I didn’t get to say goodbye to the people I had been working with, and what would happen to all of the stuff I left behind? How did I not remember arriving at this hotel in the USA? I was told I was given some medication for some reason, and this probably caused me to forget. What would I do if I wasn’t a volunteer? Suddenly, I had no plan of action. I remember wondering whether I was in my bed, as I was, or whether I was in the USA.

When I woke up and came today to Calheta, my first instinct was to call the PC office just to see if anything important had happened, like an evacuation. The thing is that if you do evacuate, someone calls your site, and you have 24 hours to pack your stuff, leave, and arrive at the common meeting point. I just read a New York Times article last week about this Turkmenistan volunteer, who was unable to say goodbye to colleagues of a year and a half before she left. She worked with special needs children, and had created the first Special Olympics there. Her kids would not know what had happened to her – she didn’t think to leave a note. I just received an email from my old San Francisco boss last week, warning me that her UN friend in Niger might be evacuated. I guess this whole situation has been looming in the subconscious part of my mind. To establish ties with people, and to have to leave them in times of war, even it is a continent away.

On a more positive note, my neighbors have taken me under their wings. There are no real men in the cluster of 6 houses that I live in. Perhaps one, that I see very little. These families are matriarchal due to the men leaving to work abroad in the construction area. Most go to Spain or Portugal, sending money home, and keeping a second family there. The women plant the seeds, weed acres of land for months during the rainy season, and return at night to care for their animals and families. It’s amazing how in the USA we worry about our lives in Corporate America or elsewhere. You join Peace Corps, in search of a different, more simple life, even if just for a few years. But you discover that your needs change, and although there is not the stress of work, there is the stress of providing for your everyday needs in a timely manner. You have to do everything during daylight hours, and people expect you to somehow make their lives better because you are their token volunteer. Candles are expensive at 10 cents each, and families seem to minimize lantern or light use. Although their lives seem chaotic, they are organized in a way that is unimaginable.

The girls go to fetch water with the donkey or on their head between 4-6 am. The boys take the goats and animals out to the pastures in the valley, tying them to plants that they are allowed to eat. All animals must be tethered, or they will eat the crops they have spent months caring for. The grandmother will also rise around 6 am to have 2 hours to get weeds for the animals at home to eat. The sun hits our houses at 8:30 am, slowly rising over the valley starting around 7 am. The women will leave the babies and toddlers with kids and the grandparents who stay at home. They take lunch with them, and right now is the ‘manda’ (MAHN-DAH) time, or weeding time. Most of the rainy months are spent weeding. They weed because the corn, beans, tobacco, and squash all need the sun and rain. In the USA, fields are planted to harvest one vegetable at a time, and the corn is cut with no regard for plants around it. Here, the corn is harvested, but the stalk is left. The beans climb the stalk, and the squash covers the ground below. Every inch of earth is used. There are no fences or walls separating land owned by different families – there are non-verbal boundaries less obvious to my eyes. Around 4 pm, the women return from the fields, and the children bring back in the grazing animals, tying them near their houses. The women carry large loads of weeds on their heads, dinner for the livestock. All the sheep cry out when they recognize their owners coming home. Between 4-6 pm is time when families socialize. My neighbors pass by my open house windows, offering greetings and produce. We talk about the harvest, and life in the country. Conversations are always upbeat, and complaints are rarely heard. I spent time at the neighbor’s house above mine a few nights ago. They have 4 Holstein cows and a bunch of sheep. The kids, flipped and played in the dried grass they use for animal feed. As they entertained themselves and the mom milked the cow, I thought about the Amish. This is how they live. This is how people all over the world live everyday.

Sunday, I hiked up to Gon Gon , the village I will work with in the mountains of my valley. My counterpart named Isabel, who is the president of that association, made me a breakfast of boiled corn. I noticed that her goat had its leg tied too tightly and couldn’t lay down. I asked her to look at it, and she had a neighbor cut the tie. The poor goat had a huge, open wound where the tie had been digging into his leg for weeks, probably. I had brought antiseptic wash for if I was to fall on the trail or if I saw a kid who needed treatment. We used this and bandaged it, tying his other leg in a better manner. Her house alone is a 30-minute hike from mine. You can see mine from the vantage point of hers up high. Her five-year-old daughter, followed us barefoot. She insisted on carrying my small backpack, and off we went in the shadows of the mountain, the sun rising over the other side. Women carrying loads on their heads greeted us along the way. When we finally reached, the people in Gon Gon had just killed a pig for their afternoon meal. I had the pleasure of watching them butcher every part of the body and fry the skin to sell, a delicacy here – hair and all! Isabel bought some of the meat, and we cooked it up with some squash and rice for lunch. The afternoon was largely spent reminiscing in the shade about the terrorism in the world, the solar energy they wanted, and teenage pregnancy. There are two teenagers, probably around 17 that are about eight months pregnant. When you ask them when they are due, they hate to respond. They get embarrassed about their general condition. Men are nowhere to be seen. Isabel says women start having kids at 15, and her mom is 45 -- ten years younger than mine. After lunch, we hike through creeks and sugar cane groves to other houses in the valley. I am starting to make ties that will enable me to take the health survey next week. Isabel says she’ll take me up one more time, and then I must start to go alone. I cannot take Snoop on the trail, apparently, because there are at least 20 dogs that will attack him if he enters their territory.

Before leaving, her mom gives me eggs, squash, and corn to take home. Two small girls follow us all the way down to our village an hour away. One will sell the pig remains that the women had little luck in selling earlier. They are so agile on the rocks and dirt paths. I slip every hundred feet, and have few opportunities to look up and enjoy the scenery. I let my guard down, and then fall, catching myself. In town, I hear that Dawn and Patrick came for the scout meeting at 3pm. When I get back to my cluster of houses around 6pm, all my neighbors greet me, and take the bags in my hands: "Elektra, you must be so tired. Gon Gon is so far away. Rest, Elektra. Sit down." They dote on Snoop when I let him out, and then disperse for their houses when the sun starts to set, giving me more corn before they leave. For now, things are looking better.