3 new episodes.....

The ongoing saga of the container….
15 October 2007

One is at the end of one’s tether….
WARNING: This is only a temporary lapse in my total adoration of these islands and this country, however I am most annoyed and the only thing that will possibly placate me will be a pedicure (€8 for an hour’s worth of toenail beauty that lasts 6 weeks) and a head bleaching (3 weeks overdue, as, yes, the bleach is in the container)

It seemed like a good idea at the time; that is, back in July, in the UK, emptying the entire contents of my home into a container, which would set sail for Cape Verde, and I would be reunited with my clothes, my music, my jewellery; in fact, my life. Didn’t seem worth buying a load of new furniture here when I had plenty at home, which would only be put into storage and loneliness for years to come.

So, Muchi, Dad, Stuart and Terence all gathered on 12 July, carefully wrapped everything in approximately 100 metres of bubble wrap and cardboard and brown paper, sealed the doors, and off she went on the back of a large lorry, a resplendent orange container, not to be opened until reunited with me in Cape Verde, some 3000 miles yonder. Maybe we should have paid heed when the lorry driver muttered to Muchi ‘ might be 6 weeks, might be 6 years….’

I had confidence, I put it out of my mind, I had faith and decided not to even think about it for 6 weeks, and if it came during the suggested time, then I would be pleasantly surprised. So, I didn’t start to think about it until 8 weeks after it had left the UK. At this point I thought I would get in touch with the carrier, Fred Olsen, and so I emailed them eagerly, about 5 times, and received no replies whatsoever. Funny, before I paid them the fee of £2200 they responded very quickly to every phone call or email, but after I paid the money I never heard from them again…

So, I tried the shipping agent in Las Palmas, which was supposed to be the first port of call, however it had already been via Hamburg (lucky little holiday for my possessions!) After having a shrieking fax siren wailing in my ear on the first few efforts, I finally got through to a lovely chap who sounded just like Manuel from Faulty Towers, who advised me that the ship with the container had arrived in Las Palmas, but that there were ‘hydraulic problems’ and that the container would have to wait there one week, but would be shipped in 7 days. I called on the 8th day… unfortunately all the containers had managed to get on to the Cape Verde ship… apart from 4, of course, mine was among these 4… they could not give me an alternative date, they didn’t know when the next ship would sail to the Cape Verdes. Nothing more could be done, except wait…..

About 10 days later I tried again, and YES… it had left Las Palmas for Sao Vicente and should be there within 2 days….

I called the port in Palmeira 4 days later, and YES (again) it had arrived in Palmeira, merely a 20 minute drive from my apartment, excitement began to mount, my roots were now half an inch long and I couldn’t wait to get to the bleach. . but alas, no it was not to be. ‘The crane is bro-ked’ I was told, and the container had been sent back to Sao Vicente.

I tried to keep calm, breathe in, breathe out, nothing could be done, live with the power of now, accept…

One week later, I tried again… my container was here. It was a Friday. So, no, I could not collect it until Monday. (Friday, Sexta-Feira, no unloading, PUB of course!)

So, on Monday at 8am I arrived at the office of the Despachante, smiling, being polite, keeping calm.

We drove to the port, and waited for an hour while they checked my paperwork.
This, of course, after 3 and half months, was not in order. I had everything I needed, a complete listing of every item in the 138 boxes, in English and in Portuguese, the bill of lading, a letter from the council in the UK confirming that everything in the container was second-hand goods from my house. The most important thing was missing, a STAMP on the letter from the council…
I begged and pleaded and said I would get the letter stamped and forwarded, just let me have the container. I demanded to see the Head of Port who said he could help with the storage costs but not with the customs officials. Then, a momentary breakthrough. If I got the letter from the council translated into Portuguese, they would re-consider.

So, back to the office of the Despachante, where he duly transcribed the letter for me, with the aid of a dictionary, word by word. This took another hour. Then the port was closed for lunch. A coffee and a menthol cigarette and two hours later, back to the port. The Despachante took the letter. I sat outside the customs office, smiling like a demented woman at everyone who passed, in case it helped. It didn’t. The Despachante came back shaking his head and sighing. It was not to be. No stamp, no container. On the way back to the Despachante’s office I decided to turn up the King Curtis CD to full volume, to cheer myself up and not weep. The Despachante asked, ‘this is English music, yes?’, no, I replied, American music from 50 years ago. ‘ah, classical music’ he replied. Bless his heart.

And what is the final outcome of this story?
10 days letter, I returned with the duly stamped letter. I couldn’t go in, I waited outside customs like an expectant father.. he came out nodding, smiling, with the paperwork to release my possessions. He then left me.

I spent 25 minutes waiting by the container in 28 degrees, not knowing what I was waiting for, but not daring to speak… finally a man came and broke the seal with a huge cutting device. I looked in, I got in, I sat amongst my Buffalo Boots, my CDs, my futon and chairs… It only took another 3 hours, 2 official stamps, €350, a marvellous large operation involving a giant fork lift and a lorry, a 20 minute slow drive and then a 2 hour unloading session aided by 2 helpful and cheerful Cape Verdians. The apartment was full of 138 boxes, now to unpack!

The last words of the Despachante to me were, ‘next time it will be easier’. The last words from me to the Despachante were, ‘there will never be a next time…’

FROM FREE JAZZ TO FREE JAZZ
27/07/07


Well .. the week of the first Cape Verde Development International Jazz Festival arrived. Free jazz. Squeaky bonk I mean. Considering there is no jazz at all here, and no one has heard even mainstream jazz, I thought perhaps free improvised jazz might be a bit of a shock to the natives, and did wonder if it was a good idea. I mean it’s a shock to the natives in East London innit? However, considering I had been booked and was amongst the musicians of international repute, and was going to get 5 free drinks and some chips, I was not going to complain.

It was all the idea of Miguel Martins, the Portuguese manager of the Irish Bar, and a jazz critic and journalist back in his home town of Lisbon. Just one problem, he was taken ill a couple of weeks ago and flown back to Lisbon, leaving no-one to take care of the festival, except for Marcos Fernandez, the resident Spanish gypsy jazz guitarist. He’s temperamental. He doesn’t like free jazz. He’s been walking Spanish down the hall all week, and shouting into his mobile phone a lot. He finally announced on Wednesday afternoon that the festival was ‘finished’, with a kind of razor gesture to the throat. He had been arguing with the authorities about details, and was no longer going to be involved.

So, on Friday, the first day of the festival, the musicians duly arrived from New York, Greece, Portugal and the UK (well I was already here actually…) The venue had to be changed from the Centro Cultural de Santa Maria, to the Irish Bar. Not so prestigious, but familiar. I arrived for the ‘sound check’. No amps, no proper PA, no engineer. A power cut. The musicians were lovely, friendly, intense, but seemed a little fraught at the ways of Cape Verde… the usual Friday evening English expats were in one corner of the bar with their vodka tonics, and looked utterly horrified when the first squeaks were emitted from the bass clarinet, when the bass player brought out his home made timber bass, and when the laptop man threw some loud bonks into the mix. Marcos was fiddling with his desk and thinking it was feedback, not realising it was part of the sound…. The soundcheck only lasted about 5 minutes as the audience were shocked into stunned silence and then started complaining about the noise…..

The lack of advertising, and the clash of parties (an English developer (50) and a Cape Verdian girls (20) engagement party in another bar) didn’t fill us with hope for a busy night, however upon arriving back at the gig at 10.30pm I was most pleasantly surprised to see that the place was heaving..

The show began.. double bass and bass clarinet first set… clucking, scraping, plucking…. The bar fell into stunned silence… it was heroic and fabulous. The night continued with short sets of duos and trios, and culminated in a jam session with drums, double bass, laptop, bass clarinet, 2 saxes and… Marcos ‘I don’t like free jazz I don’t play free jazz’ Fernandez on guitar! He loved it, so did the audience. It was like a freeze frame from a movie, waitresses frozen with cloth half wiping the table, Cape Verdian youth frozen with lighter halfway to cigarette, pale English tourists frozen in mid cackle… Truly splendid, free jazz brought to a whole new audience who responded unanimously joyfully…. Perhaps Miguel Martins knew after all……

The concert was dedicated to Miguel Martins in his sickbed, and to Ze the infamous and fabulous hairdresser from Santa Maria who sadly passed away the night before.

Monday 16th April 2007


What a strange and wonderful world I am now inhabiting, a million miles (at least) from my former life in Surrey, and London, and the UK.

Awoken this morning at around 6am by the sound of the cockerel crowing, followed shortly, at 6.20am, by the arrival of the builders who are constructing a new apartment block directly behind my block. They start the day with a cheerful argument, followed by what sounds like of tons of ballast being poured into a metal well. They like to start early, and once they have woken all the residents, they stop for their breakfast, all lined up in a neat row, quietly consuming from various old pots and tins.

I leave the apartment at about 8am, hoping to get an early start in the internet and phone shop, I have some urgent business to sort in the UK, and it has so far taken almost two weeks to try and get my bank to transfer some money to a money broker.

I leave my nice, blue, finished apartment, walk off the high pavement, and across the desert wasteland/building site that surrounds us. There are some plots of land already being built on, others awaiting development, there is a concrete football pitch, and various piles of building materials. As I step off the pavement, a gust of wind blows my skirt up and over my head, but hey, that is going to happen a lot today, so I am prepared in some sturdy pants. Cabs, pick up trucks and huge lorries roar past, dogs lie where they wish, not moving for the trucks, it is vehicles that divert past animals and children here. Children are playing, shoeless in the sand and building materials. I see two girls gleefully holding hands, jumping off a wall into a pile of sand, screaming with joy each time they land. I see a boy of about 4, barefoot, proudly playing with his new toy, a blue plastic carrier bag which he fills with wind a runs along with. I see a couple of children who have found a tiny bit of tinsel, about 5 inches long, which they are using to decorate parts of their body and giggle.

On the way to my office, a local man calls out ‘hey posh lady, I like your style’.. to which I cannot think of a suitable response, so I carry on, just smiling at him. I get to my office, on the beach, with a palm tree in front of it, about 50 yards away on the exercise poles on the beach, a young boy is suspended by his arms, doing his morning exercises. Several men are washing in the sea, with shower gel foaming up over them.

Next I try the internet shop, as I need to make my important call to the UK. I am told that there is no internet or phone line today, and there may not be for 10 days. Someone has cut through the fibre optic cable, but no one is quite sure where.

Next, the supermarket, where I hope to find something for this evening’s meal. I rummage in the freezer and pull out about 6 chicken legs, all stuck together, the lady in the shop comes over, smashes them all against the side of the freezer, until one or two come apart, so I put them into a plastic bag and get them weighed. They have fresh pears today, so I greedily grab 3, together with some batteries, some warm yoghurts and a few other provisions. The man on the till tells me the name of each thing in Portuguese, while I try to work out a way to remember the names.

Back across the wasteland to my casa, drop off the provisions, and then make my way to my first appointment, at 9.30am in a beach front apartment block. It’s not a bad life you know…

THE HAIRCUT

Off to Casa Ze, a hairdressers in one of the two main streets, the windows are decorated with tubs of beads (for hair braiding) and some strange photographs of Ze cutting a middle aged, white man’s hair. The shop is run by Ze, a beautiful Cape Verdian man, dark skinned and with features similar to a native American. He is deaf, and so is his sister, who sits in the corner of the salon with a sewing machine, mending people’s clothes, and making up garments of her own design, from large African type printed materials. Two young Cape Verdian girls also work there, both very lively and friendly. I bring my own bleach, as it’s hard to get here, and after a cut by Ze, the girls apply the bleach. They are very good, and once it is on, they use the tiny bit left in the pot to wrap up some of their own hair in foil, and attempt blonde highlights. Whilst waiting for the bleach to take (approximately 1 hour), the sister tries wrapping several garments around me, notably a lovely pair of tie trousers, which are too short for me; the material is a recurring picture of Bob Marley smoking a large joint. I like the trousers, but try to explain that the fabric isn’t really me, that it, not suitable for a 46 year old property sales agent….

When the girls find out that I am 46 years old, there is much oohing and aahing, then they come up and touch my bottom, sign languaging with hands and gestures that I have a nice botton for an old girl, and maybe it should be a bit lower down by now! Then they all start comparing bottoms in the mirror, much hysteria, other people now coming in from the street to join in the fun, much laughter and trying to communicate in a mixture of Portuguese, Creole and sign language…

Eventually, it’s time for the bleach to come off, and I realise that there is no running water in the salon. This is no problem at all, there is a large bucket near the sink, and a jug is used to pour the cool water over my head until the bleach is removed. The girls are pleased with their new highlights, and I am very pleased with the job they have done on my head. Then, before I know what is happening, 2 sets of hands are busily working on my head, and then I suddenly have a very neat blonde plait on my head. All part of the service! I leave the salon 15 euros lighter, and looking forward to my next visit.

Wednesday 18th April 2007

On my way home, about 6pm, across the wasteland to my apartment, I bump into Frank. Frank is Nigerian, I met him after only a few days here in Cape Verde. He is friendly, but sometimes a bit annoyingly insistent. Today he rushes up, and instead of his usual greeting, ‘hello, are you coming to my house today’, he has a new approach. ‘Hello, are you taking me to your house today?’ No, I say. You can be quite direct with Frank, in fact it is the only way. ‘OK’, he says, ‘I see that it is not possible that I can have you, so please can you give me one of your friends.’ Oh.. ‘Ok, I will ask them all’ I reply, but this is the wrong answer. ‘I am not asking you to ask them all, I only want one of your friends, and this is the very least you can do for me if you are my friend’. Oh lordy…..