Boa Pascoa/ Happy Easter

I will be the “ingrata” (ungrateful person, commonly used in CV if you do not call or visit minimum once a week) making an you do not call or visit minimum once a week) making an international call full of static and delays from another country to wish everyone in Achada Costa a Happy Easter next year. It is hard to believe that I will likely be going out to lunch with my parents, brother, sister-in-law at some generic burger restaurant where I will debate over ordering a sensible salad or splurging on a cheeseburger. This Easter I spent cooking traditional Cape Verdean food outside in Achada Costa, with a breath-taking landscape of endless rolling green mountains and a v

iew of the island of Maio, a skip over the ocean, so close you can see houses. Easter, like the year before and like most every important festa (party) or holiday, I hiked up Achada Costa with Inalida and

her two daughters. I expertly balanced home-made ice cream in one hand and chatted with Inalida about our English class, feeling something more peaceful than the year before, something akin to wha

t a majority of people probably feel when attending a holiday with extended family, something a shade away from comfortable and excited.

Like with every other festa other festa (party) in Achada Costa, several neighbors asked us to

to “txchega” (stop at their house to talk and eat something) as we walked to our destination. Protected by Inalida I was able to use the guise of bringing the ice cream to the appropriate house before it melted so we did not have to stop at any house. At Emilia’s (my counterpart Maria’s sister) the usual group of women and teenage girls were outside cooking, we were greeted with plates of greasy three day-old kataxupa (CV’s national dish, a stew made with ground corb, beans, and some type of meat). I ate a few bites and cleverly slipped the figado (liver, I think goat this time) on to my seven year-old neighbor’s plate. I proudly revealed the knife I had brought in my bag so I would not have to borrow someone’s knife for this festa. It was met with wide approval.

I was given the task of peeling all the mandioac (yucca root). It was daunting. Mandoiac, my nemesis has time and time made my neighbors laugh at me and question my ability to prepare food for myself. If you have never peeled mandioac with a blunt knife then you must reserve your judgment; it is not a simple task, particularly surrounded by Cape Verdean women who believe there is but one way to peel/cook most type of foods and if you do it wrong-well, you are incompetent.

I am proud to say I conquered the mandoiac, winning a battle of potentially innumerous metaphors that could be used to describe the challenges of my life in Cape Verde. My victory was mostly due to the fact these were unusually large pieces that could be peeled more easily (that’s not to say I didn’t slice my hand to the point of bleeding). It was fortunate I was able to overcome that tricky tuber root because this year there were significantly less people helping cook and serve food. No one even checked my progress or commented that I had done a horrible job.

After picking out of the comically large witch-inspired cauldrons the good pieces of chicken massa (balls of corn pasta in a salty soup) and avoiding the goat meat (I don’t dislike goat but it was a bit chewy this time) I was ordered in the shade to protect my skin. I finished my plate and handed it to the next woman to eat. The women that cook usually eat outside, while food is brought inside and presented on serving plates for the influential men and occasional women. I drank a Strawberry Fanta, a drink which I had found unbearably sweet when I first arrived in Cape Verde, but now find myself craving after salty meals here. I left Maria’s partially full but conscious there would be a heaping plate of the exact same food at the next house on my typical festa route.

Matildy and M’s I ate a small portion of chicken massa soup. I sat outside with M for hours talking about nothing without realizing I was getting a horrible farmer’s tan. Their extended family was visiting from nearby zones and Praia. Matildy, in her normal overbearing way, explained to everyone that cared to listen that although I am white, I am a Creola and part of her family. Some guys in their 20’s from Praia were there, wearing their buzzoff (fancy) clothes, sunglasses, looking freshly showered. Matildy smacked one on his head when he asked for my phone number.

Another brief visit to another house or two, during which I was able to avoid eating dry cake by sharing the plate with a pregnant woman, I went up to the one room kindergarten to watch people dance. My favorite Hilux (car) driver was very drunk, pulled me inside the school in an attempt to force me to dance. The other girls smacked him until he stumbled away. I knew everyone at the school, each of their families, and where they lived. It felt good to be part of a community. Before leaving, Maria and I talked about the nature of development work in Cape Verde, the problems we encounter in our association. In Creole Maria said to me, she has no need to be rich, to have a really nice house, because when you die you take nothing with you, all that matter is the type of person you were. It was touching to hear her say that, especially after some discrepancies regarding our reservoir project.

At the end of the day, Inalida and I walked back down the mountain (I have to note that she took a spill as we were walking, it is a treacherous path. But in true CV mannerism, everyone that saw just laughed). Tired and sunburnt, inside my house I briefly talked to Daminga (the woman I live with/my mom) about her day and the guests that had stopped by the house. I went to bed early, my hair smelling like lenha (traditional method of using wood to cook outside), feeling happier, accomplished, and more involved in my community… not to mention that I was even able to do the unimaginable, retrieve a sweatshirt I left at a Cape Verdean’s house two months ago..

Here are two more pictures I wanted to share but couldn't clearly work into this posting...a bowl

of goat blood we were supposed to eat until someone dropped an onion in it (probably improving the taste) and goat liver and intestines.