As promised, a blog about my spring break. Plus pictures this time!
I spent the first week of my break in the Casamance, which is the southern region of Senegal. I went with four American friends from UGB (my university here), who are awesome people. The region is absolutely beautiful- thick with vegetation, green and lush everywhere you go, except in the massive fields that are used for cultivation (and the occasional soccer game). It’s much less developed than the north of the country, which is where both Dakar and Saint-Louis are. The lack of development manifests itself in many ways, most notably in the road conditions- roads are hardly passable. The “main road” between the two main tourist destinations is a dirt road, basically composed of consecutive potholes. Not gonna lie, the driving got hairy at times, but we were going so outrageously slow it wouldn’t have mattered. Another way in which the Casamance really differs from the North is in the overall attitude, especially toward tourists; the whole region has a much more laid-back feel, and I found the people to be both friendlier and more disinterested in me (a welcome change). While in Dakar or Saint-Louis I can’t walk ten feet without being cat-called or hearing “ey! Toubaab!” (“hey white person!” basically), it was really rare in the Casamance to be noted at all by locals- in fact when we were hassled, it felt really out of place. Even walking alone, I felt comfortable and was really rarely approached. It was wonderful. But, all the same, we were sure to stick together at night and to *try* to be inconspicuous, especially by speaking Wolof whenever we could.
We started our trip by taking the ferry from Dakar to Ziguinchor.
That was actually a pretty big deal for me, because although I'm not really afraid of very many things, I've come to terms with the fact that I am in fact afraid of the ocean. I think I afford it perhaps more than a healthy respect. In any case, the ride was fine, fun even- although I did go to sleep early and wake up late.
The hotel we stayed in in Ziguinchor was... really something. It was beautiful, totally charming, on the outside (in the courtyard)... trees, flowers, benches, the whole deal...
but really pretty foul on the inside (I'm talking yellow sheets, ceiling falling down, massive spiders). But you get what you pay for...
4 dollars a night doesn't yet you much. But it was all we needed, and felt very authentic- in fact, people do live in some of the rooms. Plus, the staff was really great.
We spent the first day in the Casamance taking a pirogue (small fishing boat) ride through the mangroves to two villages north of the Casamance River.
The trip was wonderful- the weather was beautiful, the villages were beautiful, and people were friendly, the company was great. The two villages were really interesting- both were rural villages, where villagers live in thatch huts for the most part and appear to farm to make a living. At the first village, we went to the local “museum,” a house full of carvings that was built by a man who traveled to Europe and came back determined to recreate the sky-scrapers he had seen there- by building a two-story house. And build it he did, although we spent about 30 seconds on the second floor and were told to come back down, the floor wasn’t, uh, sturdy. Also interesting about this village, which I also found later in Cape Verde, is that they use solar panels to produce electricity. It’s heartening to see that in some ways, these villages are able to develop without destroying their phenomenal natural environment. The next village we visited was equally beautiful, but much larger. We walked around for about an hour, were served ceebujen for lunch (rice with fish... traditional Senegalese dish), and then were joined by a bunch of local kids who played with us and accompanied us to their school, church, etc.
It was really interesting how much the situation reminded me of being in villages in Sri Lanka: the school looked almost identical, the church had similarly bizarre (in my opinion) florescent and neon lights, and the kids were equally excited to come and play with us. But I was also reminded of Sri Lanka because of how out of place I felt- for the first time in Senegal I was a total tourist, visiting a village where I knew nobody, just for the sake of seeing it. This second village is actually well-known for tourism- they’ve even built a faux-traditional dwelling (as in, from centuries ago) that tourists can pay to spend the night in. I’m personally not crazy about the idea... it seems like an unauthentic experience, shallow even, that turns the village into something of a zoo exhibit for tourists (like me, I won’t deny it) who come and feel like they’ve “learned what it’s like to live in a village.” But on the other hand, these campements, as they’re called, are a huge source of revenue for the villages- this particular one that we visited has given the village enough money to build a school and a youth center. So, either the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, or every cloud has a silver lining. Most likely a combination.
In any case, we had a lovely time, and I had a great conversation on the way back with our pirogue guide about the petering-out rebellion in the now-peaceful Ziguinchor region. He inspired me to do my independent study project on the situation, or rather, on political communications and how nobody outside of the region really has any idea what is going on (especially the U.S. embassy).
The next few days were equally wonderful. We spent them at the house of a local artisan named Sherif, a Guinean batik-maker (batiks are those colorful cloth paintings that people put on their walls, of village scenes and baobab trees and such). We paid him to teach us how to make batiks ourselves, and in the end Christine and I (who stayed an extra day longer while the others went down to Guinea-Bissau) made three batiks each.
It was really cool learning the craft, and also getting to know the family- before we left we translated some letters for them, and were invited to eat lunch out of the communal bowl with them.
The next day, Christine and I traveled to a village about two hours away to spend the night with a friend from UGB, Fatou, and her family. That, too, was a great experience- her village is gorgeous, with enormous trees and enormous bugs and enormous pigs and beautiful thatch houses. We took a walk in the evening through the forest, and ate deLICIOUS Good Friday food with the family. My night in Oussouye (her village) was what I think most people would expect “Africa” to be like- my shower was with well water from a bucket in the backyard, and the bathroom was a hole in the dirt ground surrounded by some metal planks as low walls. Lovely, except the rat that ran across my feet in the “bathroom.” I still don’t like rats.
The next day, Christine and I continued on to Ile des Carabanes- an island in the Casamance River with beautiful beaches and as always, friendly people. Getting there was quite the adventure- we took a car rapide (colorful van with benches in the back), which traveled over what can barely be considered to be roads, squeezed in the car with 40- I counted, it was actually 40- other people.
I spent the first half hour standing, which actually wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be- I didn’t have to worry about falling, given that I couldn’t move an inch, it was so crowded. Then we took another lovely pirogue ride to get to the island, where we spent a relaxing afternoon and evening sitting on the beach and talking. The island was as beautiful as Lonely Planet said it would be, and it was especially nice because there were so few tourists- we had the beach to ourselves, except for the three little kids playing in the water nearby.
We woke up early the next morning to take another pirogue ride, this time to THE tourist spot in Senegal- Cap Skirring. To be honest, Cap Skirring really didn’t appeal to me. It was beautiful, sure, but all that was there was a beach (yes, a very nice beach) and a lot of other tourists. It felt like it could have been any tropical beach spot. I only stayed for the afternoon, reading on the beach. That evening, I began the second leg of my spring break trip.
The beginning of my second spring break adventure was a pretty notable event in my life. It was possibly the first time that I felt totally independent, totally capable of taking care of myself and dealing with whatever comes along. Around 7pm I hailed myself a taxi and took myself to the airport (two one-room buildings, each with a thatch roof). I saw myself onto the plane, sat with myself in the economy seat that I had bought for myself at a travel agency with the money I had earned myself at school, and then met myself at the airport in Dakar. I hailed myself a taxi, took myself home to my host family, and let myself in the door. It might not sound like a big deal, but it really was to me- not having someone at either end of the flight, or a travel buddy to sit with. Here's the inside of the airport:
Thus began phase two (little did I know that was nothing compared to how “independent” I’d be later in the week). For the second week, a one of my American host sisters in Dakar (Kat) and I had bought tickets to fly to Cape Verde and meet our other host sister, Becky, and a group from her program. I was excited to see Becky and her friends again, they’re really great people, and also I was beyond excited to see Cape Verde- it’s famous for its incredible hiking (and beautiful beaches, but I didn’t visit the beach islands). The biggest draw for me was Mt. Fogo- an active volcano that forms one of the country’s islands and draws hikers every year to climb to the top of the most recently active peaks. My 7th grade self nearly had a heart attack upon learning that- for those of you who might not know, my dream used to be to be a volcanologist.
So, off we went to Cape Verde. We arrived late at night on Saturday, and immediately realized how incredibly unprepared we were. The trip immediately became a lesson in being young, foolish, and flexible. As soon as we got to the airport, we realized we were all but helpless. Nobody spoke English, French, or Wolof (Portuguese and Creole instead). We had no hotel reservation. The cash we had brought over was not exchangeable at night. We had no guidebook, and therefore no idea where hotels were. We had no idea which of the many islands our friends were on (and in the end, we never were able to meet up with them). Fortunately, in the first of a long series of serendipitous events, we met a nice young woman named Angela who also had nowhere to stay and no language skills- but did have a guidebook. So we all managed to get a taxi and found a really great place to stay- pretty cheap, clean, and with a conceirge who spoke some French and a little English. Also, with a lovely view from our little room balcony.
It was sitting in the hotel that night that I had time to reflect on the past couple hours, and began to learn my first life lesson from Cape Verde- the importance of speaking the local language. I had never been in that situation before: if I ever went on vacation to a country where I didn’t speak the language, I was young enough that my parents took care of things. But here, I realized that not only does speaking the language make life a LOT easier, but it also earns you as a traveler a lot of respect and credence with the local population. Not to mention how much THEY appreciate the effort put in by tourists who do try to spit out whatever they can in Portuguese, or better yet, Creole. By the end of the trip, I learned how to say a few basic phrases in Creole, and together Kat and I were able to string together the few Spanish words we remembered from general life in the States to get what we needed (“agua,” “bueno,” “no habla portuguese”). Most Cape Verdians could at least figure out what we were talking about, and many words turned out to be the same in Portuguese as in Spanish. It was nice to see our clueless “obrigada”s (“thank you”) get an appreciative smile out of waiters and taxi drivers.
So, Praia, the capital city. That’s where we spent our first day in Cape Verde. We had intended on spending as little time as possible there, as it was described in the guide book as “neither beautiful nor clean.” A jump-off spot. However, as luck would have it (and as we unprepared travelers had completely overlooked), our first day in Cape Verde, a Catholic country, was Easter Sunday. Nothing was open, no shops or restaurants or what-have-yous, and there was certainly no inter-island transportation going on. But we ended up having a great time in Priai, which in fact turned out to be both beautiful AND clean (perhaps that reflects my really, really low standards, coming out of Dakar). Plus, our bad timing turned out to be wonderful timing, as we were able to experience one of the most important holidays for Cape Verdians with them. We went to church in the morning (a Protestant church, it turned out), and although I didn’t understand a word they said, they got the point across- the incredible singing, the attentive audience, the laid-back atmosphere, the clean bright church, all gave the feeling of a passionate, spiritual celebration. Wonderful. Wonderful really is the best word to describe the whole trip, so forgive me if I use it a lot.
Praia is a wonderful, wonderful city, did I mention that? It is pretty and really laid-back; a nice combination of quiet country feel (trees, fountains, smiling people, etc etc) and the warm buzz of a colorful city (kids running around, cars- occasionally- going by, etc etc). I imagine it to be similar to Bermuda, though I’ve never been there. It had an African feel in the markets and the artwork, a Latin American feel in the attitude or ambiance of the place (does it count as Latin if it was colonized by the Portuguese?), and European in the architecture. Very unique. We spent the rest of the day walking around the lovely city.
We decided to fly out of Praia the next morning, to go to Fogo (we flew, rather than take the ferry, because Kat had to leave Cape Verde in a few days and uncooperative boat schedules would have caused her to not get to see Fogo at all). To get there, we took a 40 person plane with propellers- a little nerve-wracking, bumpy little thing. But so worth the view from the air. The volcano rises out of the ocean just like you’d expect it to, massive and gorgeous, with ancient lava rivers and carvings all throughout the island.
Upon arriving, we immediately found a taxibus, which we shared with 2 really nice Germans and a really nice French couple, both of whom I’d get to know better in the next couple days (the French couple, who were so sweet, even invited me to join them on the next leg of their trip when Kat left). The driver asked if we were going to “the hotel” in the caldera, which to us implied “the only hotel” in the caldera, so we said yes and headed up. It actually turned out to be “the nicest hotel” in the caldera- not gaudy at all, very natural and unintrusive, and really actually very cheap, but not at all roughing it like I expected to.
I’m so glad we ended up staying there, though- the owner was a great friendly French guy, the clientel were mostly middle-aged or older European couples (experienced climbers all), and all the climbing guides (young men who live in the village in the caldera) hang out there playing cards, so we got to know a lot of really interesting people. And to be honest, I spent most of the time in thrilled disbelief that I was actually spending four nights in the caldera of an active volcano. And what a force it was- when we arrived in the crater itself after an hour long drive up a windy cliff-lined road, I was stunned by the beauty and power of the place. It just doesn’t feel like anywhere else in the world, that I’ve been at least; it is the crater of a volcano, in the middle of the ocean. Big, imposing, with an enormous ring lining it to the West
(the rest collapsed a long time ago), and an almost mile-high peak rising out of the caldera to the East. The last time the volcano erupted was in 1995, when a new, smaller peak was formed to the south of the larger peak (all in the caldera of the original volcano). All the guides I talked to had been old enough during the eruption to remember it- they said that they had felt it coming for months, with rumbling at night, and that the night the explosion and the lava flows started, the whole village evacuated up the side of the rim. They then left to the base of the island, where they stayed for three months while the caldera filled with lava. In the end, one of three villages in the crater was completely covered by lava, but there were no deaths.
Because we thought we’d only be spending one night on the island in order to get Kat back to her flight home, we decided to hike Mt. Fogo (that tallest, more recent peak) right away. We set out around 2:30pm, once again totally unprepared. Because Lonely Planet made it seem like a not-a-big-deal hike, I had only brought sneakers and Kat had only brought Chocos (hiking sandals). Life lesson number two: do not trust guide books. Ask people. It turned out that the majority of people who hike Fogo are either seasoned or in good shape, and that it is meant to be done with good hiking gear- boots, some even had poles. Oh well. We were getting to the top of that peak, dammit.
And get there we did. The hike was a grueling three hours at a 45 degree incline, which was really, really hard. We spent about 1/3 of the time using our hands to help us balance and pull ourselves up, it was so steep. We also switched shoes halfway to share the pain.
And around 5:30 we reached the top.
It was unbelievable. First of all because we were just so, so happy to finally be done climbing, and because we felt great having conquered the peak. But second because the top was just incredible. It was high, high above the clouds, and from the top you could see over the entire caldera and all three villages in it.
To the other side, you could look down into the higher caldera- the caldera of Fogo, the peak we just climbed. That view itself was totally worth the entire trip. The inside of that upper caldera is covered in yellow sulfur residue, and the rocks are all shaped in gorgeous, bizarre patterns. At one spot, there was even sulfuric gas coming out of a crevasse in the rocks. It really is active. You can feel it up there, something very natural, and very, very powerful.
The descent was the opposite of the climb- not just because it was, obviously, going the other direction, but because the descent was SO much fun. We went down a side of the volcano that is entirely fine volcanic rock/ash, which feels like sand when you walk through it (larger, sharper sand). The point is, it slides away as soon as you step down, so that you’re forced to keep your legs moving at all times or else you’ll fall... basically, you have to run. So, for over an hour we flew down the side of the volcano, weaving in and out, flailing our arms and legs, hollering and laughing, looking down at the clouds to the east and totally unable to stop until we reached the path at the bottom for fear of falling (which, several times, we did). Gives a new meaning to my understanding of the word Frolicking.
We slept very well that night, and woke up very sore the next morning. In addition, we decided to extend our stay in the caldera- Kat changed her ticket so that she could stay an extra night, and I decided not to try to find Becky and co. But to stay in the Caldera for the rest of the week. We spent the next day hanging out, relaxing and soaking in the landscape. We also got to know a few of the guides better- Lucas and Carlos, two friendly, annoyingly flirty young guys. We played cards at the hotel, then went out to the village co-op to try local wine, dance, and listen to a few guys playing beautiful Cape Verdian music.
The next day, Kat left. I was sad to see her go- we had such a great time together, and got to know each other really well. But I was also excited to be on my own, something I’d never done to that extent before. I spent my first day after she left relaxing again, not really feeling like hiking and just happy to take life slowly (Dad’s words of wisdom: remember, you don’t have to live life all in one day. Somehow, despite my efforts to follow this sagely advice, I think I ended up living a year’s worth of experiences in less than one week). I went to watch my guide friends play soccer in the afternoon, got to know a lot of the people staying at my hotel, and cracked the French family- the one who made “the popular table” at the hotel, as Kat and I called it, the one who made fun of us in French when they saw us come down from the volcano, and who made a rude comment about Americans in front of us when they thought we only spoke English. Well, at the soccer game, I started speaking with the dad in French, and got to know more about the family... and told them more about myself. They were totally surprised and really happy that I’m actually currently a student in Senegal, and that I speak decent French (how great to find an American who speaks a foreign language! they said. I set the record straight- there are lots of us). It turned that despite their initial distaste for Americans, they’re actually a really sweet, very cool family. Again, a lesson in how important it is to speak other languages- to get respect, and show respect. The family ended up sort of adopting me for the evening; I went with them to the house of one of the guides, Alcindo, to try grog (local rum- did not enjoy) and again listen to Cape Verdian music. Cape Verdian music, by the way, is unbelievably beautiful- haunting, exactly as I had been told it would be. If you get the chance, I cannot recommend Cesaria Evora enough. Gorgeous music.
Thus, life lesson number three. A lesson in being alone: you’re never really alone. I have found that as much as one may be without familiar faces, when it comes down to it people will find a common ground and look out for each other. That is not to say that people are angels- in fact, one guy with a particularly devious sense of humor gave me a very wrong translation of the word “honey,” which I was supposed to buy for my host family in Dakar- rather than translating “honey,” he gave me the word for “beer.” It took me about an hour of not being directed toward any sort of honey isle in the market to realize what happened. But, the point is, there are people who are willing to create community or to expand the one they already have, out of goodness, curiosity, whatever. That’s been true everywhere I’ve been in Senegal, it was true in the caldera, and as I’ll explain shortly, it was even truer later on when I arrived in Sao Filipe.
The next day, I set out with yet another local guide to hike the outer rim of the caldera.
We hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to get to the base (so much fun!), then hiked all afternoon (considered to be a pretty moderate hike, but frankly, I thought it was really hard... I should exercise more), and stopped when we got to a dip in the caldera where there was enough space to pitch a tent. Paolo, the guide, started a campfire, which is a tradition- letting the other guides in the village far below know that we were up there. Apparently they also have celebrations up there sometimes- bring up drums, start a campfire, and dance and sing all night. How awesome.
Dinner was a can of sardines mixed into a can of chickpeas- surprisingly good. We had a great time, talking and enjoying the view, him explaining about life in the village. Paolo, by the way, is a really nice guy- I hired him because he was the only one who didn’t offer to take me up. As nice as the guides were, they had their fair share of sketchy young men. We also hiked to the top of the closest rim peak to watch the sun set, which was not stunning but very pretty, and then went back to watch the fire die down. Paolo went to sleep, and I stayed up for a bit to look at the stars. It’s incredible how bright they are up there, with no electricity for miles and miles- and how MANY there are. I’d never seen so many layers of stars. I’ve decided I like the big dipper the best- because it’s always the first I can pick out, ever night, no matter where I am: Cape Verde, Senegal, the Poconos. Forgive my cheesy, but we all share the same sky.
Paolo woke me up at 5am the next morning to start are descent. Painful, yes. The sun hadn’t started to rise yet, but did begin to just as we finished packing up the tent. The sunrise was phenomenal- all pinks and oranges and yellows, emerging from behind the big blue-grey cone of Mt. Fogo. I only wish we’d had more time to sit and enjoy the sunrise, but Paolo seemed insistent on walking as fast as humanly possible to get down- not easy, considering the ground is so unstable. I have to say, it was pretty frustrating. But beautiful nonetheless.
By the way, the guides all speak some French because the clients at the hotel are all European. So that’s how we communicated. Also by the way, I had temporarily lost my camera at this point, so there are no pictures from camping- turns out it had fallen into the bed of the pickup that dropped us off, but the driver found it and then found me in Sao Filipe the next day and returned it, which was so good of him.
We waited for about an hour at the base of the rim for Patrique, the hotel owner, to come and pick us me up in his pickup to take me to the city at the base of the island, Sao Filipe. Patrique, by the way, is a very interesting character- I think that what he told me translates as he was a contractor in France for years, then decided to move to Cape Verde. He spent 6 years in the capital, and has been in the caldera for 6 years since then. His business is great, and I’m sure it brings a lot of tourism to the area- but I can’t help but be struck by the contrast between his lifestyle, the only permanent European there as far as I could tell, and the extreme poverty of the village. I would later find out that not only is the village really poor, but there is a huge gender gap- girls often don’t go to school, and if they do, it’s often just to find a man. Then, once married, it is accepted that men will have mistresses, and even families with their mistresses. Like unofficial polygamy. Women, on the other hand, stay at home and do the dirty work, for fear of being left.
So down we went to the base of the island. I was sad to leave the volcano and the people I had gotten to know there- what an incredible place- but also really ready to stop traveling and just be home (UGB home). My plan was to buy my ferry ticket at 10am as instructed by the ferry staff, then board at 12, spend the night in Praia, and fly from Praia to Dakar the next day.
Or so I thought. As I have often found to be the case in West Africa, plans are hardly worth making, and schedules are hardly worth looking into. Lesson number four: be flexible, be easy-going. Just sit back and let life make the decisions on its own sometimes. Not only is that necessary in certain cases, but I’ve found that life is more fun, more interesting, and more comfortable when things have the chance to happen on their own. Often the best experiences can’t be predicted, and can’t be planned. In Sao Filipe, life made some initially really frustrating decisions that ended up creating a wonderful weekend.
What happened was, I got down to the ticket agency at 10, as told, to buy my ticket, and was told that in fact the boat did not leave at noon but at 7pm, and would be an overnight boat. Whatever, I can handle that, I’ll buy the ticket anyways. Except... I have no money. Shite. And oh man oh man, my bank account only has 6 dollars left in it. Shite. I ended up having to take out a cash advance from the credit card- really expensive, but really, really necessary. And I bought the boat ticket. Then, while sitting in a little park, waiting for my now later-than-expected ferry, I came across a volcano guide and had a nice convo with him- just happy to find someone who spoke one of the languages I speak (French, again). He asked about my departure, and informed me that I had not bought the ticket that I thought I had bought, at all. What I had bought was a ticket for a freight boat- a small wooden fishing/freight boat that would be dirty and dangerous, going through open seas, and that surely I would be vomiting all night. There would be no other tourists on board- me and shippers. It would get into port at Praia at 3am, which would mean there would be no taxis to meet me to take me to my non-existent hotel. Deeeeedeeeet. There was NO way I would be doing that- aside from my afore-admitted fear of the ocean (which I am working on), it is just not a smart idea to be alone at a port in Praia in the middle of the night with nobody but boat workers and not a taxi in sight. Beginning to feel a little concerned about how exactly I would get off the island, I went up to the Cape Verdian Airlines agency to see about a flight. Thankfully, they said they had place on a flight the next morning that would meet my flight to Dakar, and I should come back after lunch, when the system was running again at 3. The hotel was great by the way- nice and clean, with a really sweet concierge, and HOT WATER! A tv in the room too, which played CSPAN in English! Fyi, I was not impressed by the presidential candidates’ speeches at Lincoln Day Republican Dinner.
And right about here, Mom deserves credit for being the absolute greatest when I called home that afternoon. Thanks, Ma :)
Unfortunately, things got a little worse before they got better. I went back to the flight agency at 3, as told, to buy my plane ticket... and found that they had already SOLD it to someone else. Oh, my, god. That was a really, really bad moment. Alone on an island in the middle of the Atlantic, broke, not speaking either of the languages spoken on the island, hardly able to communicate with anybody, a wicked sunburn on my back, exhausted from 2 weeks of nonstop travel, no clean clothes, and now no way to get home. Ohh, bad moment.
But, as everything does in the end, it turned out fine. I was able to change my flight to Dakar, and bought a ticket to fly to Praia the next day instead. So I ended up spending 2 extra nights on Fogo. I slept really, really well that night.
The next morning I wandered around Sao Filipe, hoping I’d run into someone I recognized... when all of a sudden, from across the street, what should I hear but “ey! Toubaab!” ... Toubaab?! Did you just say TOUBAAB!? I have never been so happy in my life to have hey, whitey, shouted at me. I went over to talk to the two Senegalese men who had shouted at me, and sure enough, they spoke Wolof, as well as some French. I was having great small talk with them in Wolof, when I noticed an American-looking guy sort of hanging out behind us. I wrapped up with the Senegalese guys and turned to see what was up. As it turned out, he was a really nice guy named Mike, a member of the Peace Corps who was stationed on the island. He said he normally ignores white people, assuming we’re tourists, but noticed I was speaking Wolof and thought it’d be worth seeing what my deal was. And I am so, so glad he did. It turned out Peace Corps group on the island was going to be having a party that night, and Mike invited me to join in. I ended up spending the afternoon with him and another Peace Corps guy, Sam, buying food for the party and then going down to sit on the beach. Then later that night I went over to the house, where I met the rest of the island’s Peace Corps- such a sweet group of people. I had a wonderful time, sitting around talking and eating and getting to know yet another group of awesome, interesting people. After the party, I walked down to the beach again with two of them to watch the waves and the stars and talk. It was fantastic.
I left Fogo the next day on another small plane, which I ended up taking with that nice German man and woman, and also with a South African documentarian I had been told to keep an eye out for. Alone, but also not alone at all.
Rather than spend 6 hours at the airport waiting for my flight to Dakar, I decided to go downtown and sit at my favorite coffee shop. I had a wonderful afternoon- sitting and reading Paradise by Toni Morrison (which perfectly fit the mood, with its magic and witchcraft, soul searching, racial struggles, the whole deal) and listening to beautiful Cape Verdian music from the cafe’s speakers. Wonderful.
Then the conclusion of my trip to Cape Verde: after about an hour at the airport, I looked up from my croissant and who should I see walking toward me- but three of the friends I was supposed to meet up with in Cape Verde, the original reason I had decided to come. They were on my flight, and I was SO happy to see them, to hear their stories and exchange photos. And, as if that wasn’t enough, a few minutes later another friend of mine, Andy (another American at UGB) walked in as well- he, too, was on my flight, after spending a few days at a Rotary conference in Praia.
And thus was my spring break. I returned to Saint-Louis, and to UGB, after a night in Dakar, and have been very happy to be back. The only snag upon my return to UGB was when I went to see my professor and ask what I missed in class Monday (I had missed it because I got stuck on Fogo), and he informed me no don’t worry, there was no class... everyone’s studying for your midterm tomorrow morning! ...my what? But that is another story.
Congratulations to all who made it this far... I know this was another ridiculously long entry, but it was an experience that really made an impression on me. It feels good to write it out, helps me to digest it.
I hope everyone is doing well... I’m coming home in 2 months, and can’t wait to see you all, although I’m also going to miss it here so much. Well, that’s all for now.
Babeneen,
Morgan
