My response to the closing of Peace Corps Cape Verde

The following is my response to the closing of Peace Corps Cape Verde.  It was first published in “Nobas: Peace Corps Volunteer Newsletter” (March 2012).  The editors of “Nobas” made some cosmetic changes and omitted (or censored?) one line from my original.  “Nobas” was volunteer run.  I did not expect other volunteers to be so exclusive and repressive of another’s ideas.  I’m posting it here with my own revisions.

Mooning Chã das Caldeiras New Year’s Eve Day

By A.P.

            Anyone who's trekked up Cape Verde's signature vulcão will know how treacherous it is.  It starts out easy enough, but within a few meters the hike gets so rocky that a hiker can easily twist an ankle, trip, and/or crack a skull. Farther along, the trail gets so steep you'll be using your hands (and scraping them) to climb up sharp, jagged-edged boulders of hardened lava. It is not a hike for beginners. And it's certainly not a hike for someone who's got the squirts.

            Well, you might say, duh! Who in their right mind would go anywhere while undergoing some good ol' Peace Corps GI Training. Alright, so maybe I wasn't in my "right mind." But the beauty of the Caldeiras, its rough terrain and austere volcano will tempt any a nature lover.  And, as our CD advised, "Seize the day." It was New Year's Eve, after all, and I came to Fogo to hike Fogo, so I made the decision that morning when I saw the rims of the Caldeiras ablaze by the sunrise that I will subi, diarrhea notwhithstanding.  Little did I know that the diablo na nha barriga had not yet awakened as we started our ascent. 

            The decision to subi, however, wasn't completely based on ignorance or lack of awareness. I knew well enough to bring toilet paper, for example. I knew what the possible consequences were. But of course, like many important decisions, awareness isn't enough. A rockclimber, for example, may see or feel a hold, may even have experience enough to judge the hold sufficient, but she still needs luck to reach that hold, and to stick to it, or else fall off the climb. A lover, as another example, doesn't just fall in love--he's aware of some attraction, decides to make a move, and, with some luck, the attraction is reciprocated so that falling can come to fruition; otherwise, it's nothing but self-indulgent, sentimental sappiness. Or young love, I suppose. . .

            So, awareness and experience--supposed ingredients to produce prudent decisions. I had a good amount of both, I thought, but my decision to summit was undoubtedly imprudent. I was in pain so excrutiating throughout most of the hike that I did my best to tune out others' frolicsome banter, to concentrate on appeasing nha diablo. The sights were not very moving for me because my bowels were.  [Here, a good friend of mine suggests I be more descriptive, to add more details; however, I may have repressed those details to focus on soothing my insides.]   I've completed many, many hikes, and never have I been the "sweeper" at the tail end until this Fogo hike. Everyone had to stop and wait for me.  I still did reach the top, however, and was able to hop-skip down the gravelly slope. So. I came. I shat. I conquered. But I was no badass.

            I was lucky. Even before the big, bad news of first-years getting cut off from a second in Cape Verde, even before we had run out of luck, I knew I was lucky to have summitted Fogo.  And I don't mean just lucky physically that my intestines didn't burst (though, thank heavens, they didn't). I mean fortunate to have done what I had set out to do. In spite of everything, I got shit done. And for that I left Fogo on the "Fast” Ferry grateful and glad. Or rather, Fogo left me kontenti. 

            I hold the memory of our trip to Fogo, look back on it with cheer and good-humor. It was a full experience. In spite or because of the hardship, it is one of those experiences that I can take full ownership of, an experience full of meaning. Now, as we all close our service, I’m already inflicted with sodade, a different kind of hardship, a sadness and a longing for this small part of Cape Verde that I tried to make my home. I don’t want to leave. This “graduation” is not gradual. It doesn’t make sense. The work, the friendships and the projects, are just opening up, and now we have to close them down? Thus, much of the inner-work as I make peace with the “interrupted service” ahead has been to try to fill up the interruption and rupture with more meaning. To respond to questions like, what’s the point of our training in Cape Verde? Peace Corps Cape Verde 2011-2012? What was that all about? After Mozambique, perhaps, upon reflection, maybe, it will make some sense.

            On our "Fast” Ferry ride back to Praia, a passenger advised another: Forsa--dexa bai.  Be strong--let it go. Fight the good fight--then surrender to your fate. The passenger was consoling another in the throes of hurling, but I recall it here because it reminds me of the advice to “finish strong.” I confess, though, that I’m bogged down with txeu movimentu, bram-bram demas. I’m not sure I can with forsa take what the gods have given. Or what they haven’t given, as the case may be. And I certainly don’t want to let go. At least not yet.