Some of my happiest moments are when I am thoroughly exhausted. I am sure there is a scientific rationale, based on energy expenditure and endorphins but it still seems odd, like tricking nature. It’s as though my body is so tired and worn-out there is no other choice than to just be happy and satisfied because anything else would require too great an effort. I love the way my feet feel after hiking hours and hours in a cheap pair of flip flops. They no longer hurt I can walk on anything.

I recently visited the PCV who has arguably the most rural, most difficult to reach, site in Cape Verde (or at least for sure on the island of Santiago where I live). No regular cars will take you to his zone, hiking at least an hour or two hours depending on your pace, is required. The path is dust, rock, corn stalks, and thorn bushes. His site is tranquil and peaceful. There are few houses and they are far apart. I have been told that the reason Cape Verdeans built their houses in difficult to reach places was to be out of Portuguese colonists’ reach, and that would explain how a lot of communities are set up. I cannot imagine what two years of service at site like his, one that is so isolated from any and all types of resources ranging from basic necessities like food and water to developmental resources like the local government and proximity to international organizations that operate in Cape Verde. I saw pictures of my friend who lives there before he came to Cape Verde. He was entirely different person, and based solely on his California snobby Frat boy appearance, not likely someone I would be friends with in the U.S.. However it’s incredible how this country can change you. Now I admire his calm attitude and acceptance. I wish I could practice the art of solitude as peacefully as he does.

After visiting his site, when I got home the power went out. I think it was out in the surrounding towns as well because the night seemed darker than our usual power outages. In my bedroom, listening to music with a candlelight I felt serene and appreciative of my present situation. The opportunity to live in another country for two years, maybe help people, maybe help one person, maybe help no one, maybe help myself, maybe not. It’s an opportunity, none the less. Outside tonight the sky is full of stars incomparable to anything I ever saw in America except maybe that one time sleeping outside in the Appalachias right out of Tennessee. The nights have recently been cold enough that I can wear a hoodie with my shorts. The atmosphere is perfect, somewhat lonely but in such a fine way it’s not bothersome.

That Sunday morning I went up Achada Costa, my favorite zone in my town. I first stopped at Donda’s house, where I stop every Sunday I am up there for Cape Verdean style cousous (dome-shaped bread). I sat on a rickety plastic chair with the old lady who lives there and attempted to comprehend her babbling. The two women would ask the one year old girl peoples’ names for her to point to the right person. I was surprised she knew my name and even more surprised when that when she was instructed to “Da-el beijo” or “Give her a kiss,” she ran over, grinning and kissed my cheek. Perhaps because this is a particularly adorable girl or I don’t know why, but I felt so very happy there. I took one of the large wooden poles used to crush corn into a fine powder and helped the women. They were all impressed and excited that I had finally learned how to “pila midju,” or crush corn. Usually two women do it at once, alternately lifting the poles up and down. I stayed for hot, fresh cousous and managed to escape without having to drink the dreaded “leite dormindo,” or sleepy milk, promising I would have some on my return. This Sunday morning coucous ritual with family was like pancakes Sundays in a big close-knit family somewhere in the Mid-West in Any Town, USA.

On my way to Maria’s I stopped by two or three other houses briefly. In one house I was disappointed to find a 17 year old girl that I like is pregnant. I was assured her boyfriend will take care of her, but got his cell phone number and gave him mine in case she needed anything (she doesn’t have a phone). A little boy, Peyo, lives in that house who always crawls all over me and refuses to let go of my hand. The little boys are generally shyer but not this one. The mother of the house was sick, I was told to go into her bedroom and speak with her. I felt awkward making her sit up and talk to me so I left quickly and promised to return another time. At Matildy’s I briefly told her the information she gave me about her daughter’s eyeglasses was incorrect and I needed the right numbers to try to help. Matildy was, as usual, full of idioms and motherly advice for me regarding skin cancer, thyroids, Jesus, and life in general.

I finally reached Maria’s sister where Maria was. I find her sister somewhat off-putting, as she usually doesn’t talk to me directly but instead turns to Maria for translations. At Maria’s I sat out front while she washed her family’s clothes. We chatted about project possibilities, about my parents’ visiting, about Maria’s kids, about my fake boyfriend in America (haha…that can be explained better later, suffice to say I’ve found it easier to pretend to not be single). After 2 or 3 hours of this, her husband showed up. He and I sat outside taking the peanuts off the vines that were piled up. Maria cooked. A group of young boys played soccer beside Maria’s house. I helped with the peanuts for a few hours. It was one of those days when the hours passed and little was done or said but it felt comfortable. I left around 6 P.M. with a plastic Tupperware of fish and rice wrapped in a towel placed carefully in a backpack by Maria for me to eat in my house. I hurried down the mountain, saying quick good-byes and hardly even pausing at the remarkable sunset. Orange, pink, blue…like Trix yogurt. I could see buildings and houses on the island of Maio.

This calm is a peculiar thing and completely foreign to me as an anxiety-ridden goal-oriented American. I dig it.