Visiting her was a bit complicated, mostly because she doesn’t have cell reception, so no check-in text to clarify logistics (gotta love the cellphones: some PCVs are resistant to cellphones because before service these volunteers imagined PC would help purge their dependency on electronics, sure a valid desire but, man, do cellphones make coordinating for both work and social so much easier). I talked with her on a Tuesday (she had been at another site with network) and mentioned that I’d head down to her site that weekend if standfast (i.e. PC travel restriction during the riots) was lifted. By Thursday standfast was lifted, I radioed her via another volunteer saying I was coming (though I’m not sure the radio message made it to her), packed my little bag, set my alarm clock for bright and early,…. Yay, so excited!
There was one major hitch, I wasn’t totally sure where she lived. I knew the name of the town, I knew the crossroad off the main highway that heads in her direction, and I knew transport was difficult and frustrating for her and I should get to the crossroads as early as possible to get a car into the village.
When I told the chapa to pull over, the driver doubted my request, no this is really where I want to get off. He pulled away, leaving me at a crossroad between the EN1 and a dirt road with a restaurant/bar, some farmers trying to hitch north on the main highway with sacks of corn, and a man leaning on his bike telling me: “you just missed a car”. I began to wish I had a plan B.
I sat under a baobab tree, at first with a man who had a satiny, snakeskin print shirt and classy shades---this was his cellphone tree, the spot where there was sometimes (but not always) network. His big watch and shiny clothes seemed odd at these crossroads. Eventually he caught a ride to another village down the dirtroad on a bike, and then I was alone....just me and the baobab tree and some burrowing ants. As more kids (their bums peaking through ripped seams) passed by, men on bikes, women carrying bundles on their head, the “you just missed a car” turned into “you missed the last car going to Estaquinha for the day”. Now I really was starting to wish I had a plan B. Could I walk? Nope, too far, one teenage boy estimated the distance at roughly 80 km (okay I kind of doubt this distance but it is too far to walk nonetheless).
One man came up (multiple times) and offered to resolve my situation: we can go grab some drinks at the bar and then he could take me there on his motorcycle. He had no teeth. This seemed like a really really bad idea, an even worse idea than sleeping in the shrubs on the side of the road, which according to him was my only other option. <
And just as the need for a plan B was starting to get urgent a car came by. While I felt better in the car, I was still not totally sure the car was going to the right place, the driver said Estaquinha…. I think? At one point the car stopped and almost everyone got out, and I asked the woman sitting next to me if this was Estaquinha…. She just stared at me, so I asked again, same non-response, maybe she didn’t speak Portuguese (oh man, I’m not in the city anymore)… well it didn’t turn out to be my destination, so good thing I had gotten back in the car.
The driver, who was sweet and inquisitive, eventually stopped the car in front of a group of little concrete houses and said: “your friend gets out here.” “Are we in Estaquinha?” “But your friend gets out here.” I was hoping he was talking about my actual friend, not one of my other “friends”. Often people I meet think I am friends with all other white people. It is not uncommon to hear: “oh I know your friend John, he lives in a vila in Gaza.... he is from your land, from either New York or Chicago or London…. No, he doesn’t live in Gaza now, he lived there 5 years ago….. I think you know him or maybe he knows you? No eh?” So when the driver talked about my “friend” I was starting to worry I was going to be crashing at the house of some other white lady, not my PC buddy.
I ran up to the nearest house with people, two men laying out on straw mats. “Good afternoon? How are you? Does the Professora Rebecca live near here?” One of the men let out a single: “Yes.” That was it, nothing more affirmative or negative, just “yes”.
Guess this is the spot.
****
My friend who I visited is a wonderful actress and I really enjoyed watching her work with her students in prep for English Theater, a PC run regional competition. There were a couple of things that I thought were particularly interesting while watching her students perform (1) greetings: culturally it is very important to greet everyone and ask how they are before you bulldooze into whatever point you need to talk to them about… I still have a hard time remembering to do this without being prompted by someone else. The students struggled to resist their urge to extensively greet each other at the start of every scene (which was a necessary dialogue cut considering the time constraints of the performace). (2) that weird clapping thing: at one point during the play the characters arrange a bride price, and all the actors start a slow rhythmic unified clapping. After the third time watching the scene I realized that this was not some accidental motion. “What are they doing?” I whispered to my friend, “You know I’m not so sure…” It turns out that the slow group clapping is just one of the essential steps to the bride purchase. She later told me that when they were getting ready for the final performance the students were stressed about finding the appropriate props for the scene, specifically two plates that you sandwich over the bride-money.
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