The Travel Album

I had hoped to share many photos from Tabaski in the village and my recent vacation in Cape Verde. Cape Verde is possibly the most visually stunning and geologically unique place I’ve ever been, and I easily took a few hundred photos in the seven days I was there. Tabaski this year was special to me, too, because it was a kind of homecoming. It hit me how much I miss my village family and village life, and how numbered my days in Barkedji, and Senegal, truly are.

Until now I’ve avoided blogging about these experiences, though, because sadly I can’t share any of my photos with you: my camera was stolen during my trip from Cape Verde to Senegal. Photos are a terrible thing to covet—we all know that the experience is much more valuable than its document—but an even worse thing to lose. In an attempt to rebuild my photo collection, I’m giving you some verbal snapshots.

Photo 1: Father
My village dad, Mamadou Diaw, is one of the most serene men I have ever met. Every year for Tabaski, he puts on a spotless white kaftan and flowing headdress held in place by a twisted gold and black band. As he stands clutching his Koran, he has a stately, holy air. He normally shies away from the camera, but on Muslim holidays, he allows himself to be photographed. His revering sons and nephews flock to his side and jostle for a prime position next to him. As the boys mug for the camera, my father looks past me, seemingly floating above the commotion of the day.

Photo 2: Lunch
The butcher travels from house to house killing the Tabaski rams for all the village families. To bleed our sheep, he holds its head over the hole he has dug in the sand and slices the neck. His fingers are nimble, his technique refined, his attitude composed. The animal dies silently as the blood sinks into the sand, merging with the earth and leaving barely a trace. The butcher then begins slicing the animal’s skin from his body and hanging the hide from the tree branches and the wall to dry in the sun. He piles the slick, red flesh into a plastic laundry basin for the women to cook, but leaves the feet and tail—the unwanted remnants—scattered around the compound in a kind of twisted game of hide and seek game for the children.

Photo 3: Sisters
Diama, our favorite sister, takes a break from cooking massive amounts of meat, potatoes and onion sauce to have her photo taken with me and Ann Marie. Diama is unironically sporting the costume jewelry that Ann Marie brought back from the U.S.—the kind of shiny, oversized stuff that American kids use to play dress-up. Ann Marie and I looking just as fancy. We are both clad in green—she in a stiff, tight, plasticky skirt and matching embroidered shirt and I in my shiny, neon, bedazzled pajama-like creation. Today we are relishing our role as Barkedji’s grandes dames.

Photo 4: Vending Machines
Brian, Jen and I have just landed in the Praia, Cape Verde airport, and we are experiencing culture shock. We take off our backpacks and plop down in the plush seats. I look around. The floors are shiny and markedly un-littered. The tv screen above our heads plays a catchy public service announcement about a recent dengue fever outbreak. Wait, why is no one trying to talk to us? When we look behind us, we make our most exciting discovery about the things that change when you travel from a “least-developed country” to a “middle income country”: the appearance vending machines. Jen and I wander over and stare into the machines’ mesmerizing, fluorescent depths. We press buttons to find out the prices of almost every item. An airport staff member eyes us suspiciously, so I hastily purchase a can of Schweppes Bitter Lemon. I wonder whether I’m trying to appease her or ease my own insecurities about being an outsider in this clean, convenient world.

Photo 5: At the Boardwalk
Brian has a confused look on his face as he stares in the window of the ocean-side commercial complex’s luxury clothing store. A slate gray mannequin in a preppy sweater and boat shoes returns his gaze. We’re in Mindelo, Cape Verde’s cultural capital, but we could just as easily be in Miami, (bitch). We are drawn inwards by the clean white lines of the complex’s minimalistic, German architecture. As we walk over fake turf, past the overpriced café that could have just as easily been found at a European modern art museum, and toward the sea, we come upon an exclusive dockside bar, whose periphery is demarcated with a row of metal trees and a velvet nightclub rope. I look through the trees' angular branches toward the ocean beyond, where sailboats pass the quiet day bobbing with the ocean’s swells.

Photo 6: A Fine Balance
We are about two hours into our first day of hiking along the seaside cliffs of Santo Antao, a mountainous northern island we have traveled to by ferry. As we turn a corner, we find the most stunning village perched high upon the rocks in a shadowy pocket. The cool morning air has a scent of unreality. I feel small, like a doll in some Paddington-toting boy’s Peruvian play world. I imagine that he has placed the multicolored pastel houses on their precarious perches with chubby fingers, and it’s only a matter of time before he slips, his hand slamming down upon this delicate world. The houses will be ripped from their foundations to fly into the air before tumbling to the dark depths below. This place is far too beautiful to last.

Photo 7: Gold Strike
Later in the day, about four hours into the hike, our muscles are exhausted by the constant climbs and descents. As we ease our way down a steep and rocky hill, I am pulled onward by a golden glint in the distance. When we reach the valley bed, I realize that the shimmer is coming from a small, still stream—nothing more than an inch of water flowing lazily over smooth rocks. More than a fragile reflection, the deep, almost ruddy gold color seems to come from within the earth. Instead of dissipating, it follows me as I hop across the water. The others continue on, but I stay behind, mesmerized.

Photo 8: Sugarcane
The van turns off at Paúl, a village on the sea, to make its way up through Santo Antao’s interior mountains that are carpeted in green. Fields of sugarcane cling to the rock faces, and the graceful white flowers dance in the breeze, reminding me of oversized dandelions gone to seed. We are traveling high up in the hills to taste homemade herbed softcheese and flavored grogue, Cape Verde’s cheap and prevalent sugarcane liquor. Our destination is a well-known farm/restaurant/all-purpose hiker hangout owned by Alfred, an aging hippie and Autrian expat. It is one of those must-see places made famous by word of mouth long before it made its way into the dog-eared pages of the ubiquitous travel guides we see in the pockets of the many international visitors. As we wait for our food, I wander outside and look toward the top of the mountains. Sugarcane leans large over me, its shape, like a gnome's hat, illuminated perfectly by the mid-afternoon sun.