We were invited to a Sunday lunchtime barbie, Scottish-style, with Tam, Jenny and their seven year old son, Kieran. Holly and Joe would start their new school tomorrow and Jenny generously felt it would be nice for them to recognise a friendly face there. All very civilised. Nine hours of drinking, drivelling (and probably dribbling) with Glaswegians later we stumbled home at 10pm, via the pub.
It wasn’t the most responsible thing we’ve ever done as parents, and I’m not proud of myself. But, with hindsight, we felt that we had probably done Holly and Joe a favour. Exhausted, they set off for school, unfazed by something so trivial as the inability to speak Portuguese, the teachers’ language of choice.
Holly, loved her first few days at school – a new girl at the centre of attention. Her class is a melting pot of European prima-donnas and middle class Cape Verdean boys. I will never understand how she sat in a classroom full of strangers who babbled at her in a totally foreign language. I had prepped them both with some basic “Bom dia” phrases and the briefest dally with conjugating Present Tenses, but they were both bored with my classes.
Joe didn’t settle in easily. His class is predominantly local street boys, who have grown up unnoticed and unguided – his worse case scenario. He struggles to fit into new routines and environments (I’m sure he thinks he’s adopted). My little lamb was forced to live in pastures new. As usual, he bottled up his worries and after a few days burst out with the predictable “Nobody likes me!” drama. A pep talk eased his worries, but inside my heart was broken.
In public, we were telling our families that the children were flying, embracing their new friends and playground fun after six months of home tuition without a home. They loved the kudos of new boy/girl in class. In private, they were shattered in body and spirit. Their school bus collects them at 7.35am and returns them home at 6pm. Their concentration limits must be through the roof. They are bright children - the shark table, not the jellyfish table for them in England. Now they were “estupido” (Joe) and “shat” (gobby show-off : Holly).
Teachers don’t mediate playground tiffs, and arguments are resolved with a punch, a scratch or a kick. My little European boy severely missed his Reception teacher and her matronly concern. Encouraged by their headmistress, the pointless English Tae Kwon Do manoeuvres were swiftly ditched and cage fighting tactics engaged. Don’t wait to be hit, get in there first, whether it’s a boy or girl. I hated to hear the savage lessons taught by their father, but they were crucial if Joe were to claw his way from the bottom of the ladder, the easy target of every bully in the playground.
To my incredible pride and astonishment, they get on the school bus every morning with hardly a complaint of how tough it must be for them.
So, they are absorbing the language, and there’s lots of pointing and gestures going on. I wasn’t sure what Joseph’s hitting-his-willy-with-his-drink-bottle action demonstrated, but he assured me all the boys were doing it. My worry was that Joe had instigated it all, and we were judged a bunch of chavs.
I have my doubts about their long-term education here, and we will have to forge a very successful business in Santa Maria, if I am going to balance out the sacrifices.
As to our own achievements, we spoke to the developer of our complex today – a Don Pietro. He is part of the Italian big boy society out here, and Tony revelled in his status as amico to the local Don Corleone figure. Afterwards, we pottered off to the supermarket to buy some potatoes and realised what small fish we are in this pond.
By Mid-May, we surely deserved a little fun, and stumbled across a most entertaining Sunday jolly at the beach. An upmarket apartment complex launched, celebrated with an extended weekend of partying for the well-connected. All sorts of bigwigs and their plus-ones were invited - the President of Cape Verde, Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Diversity, the Salters.
Actually, we had gone kiting on the sand-dunes about five minutes around the bay from the hotel. We heard the party music blasting out and naturally thought we should explore.
A sea of white European faces in their Monsoon maxi dresses and linen trousers clinked cocktail glasses with similar desirables. We stood outside the gate covered in sand and suntan lotion, Tesco beach bag in one hand and kites in the other.
After the Security Guard assured us the hotel was open to the public, we headed off for a totally innocent mooch. Via the bars, the swimming pools and top-class restaurant. A few hours later we were chillaxing on the beach sofas, nodding our heads at the beach party DJed by Sophie.
As you might expect, we got caught by the hotel manager (inconveniently, our next-door-neighbour). I felt like a naughty five year old, but was it worth it? Oh, yes.
The following weekend, we were invited to clean up the main turtle-nesting beach. A lot of fishermen’s rubbish and broken bottles find themselves swept in from the sea.
Besides the litter problems, poachers also kill the turtles for their meat and eggs. Joe and Danny played with their “boomerangs”, until the rangers explained they were sun-bleached turtle bones from de-capitated victims. Local folklore suggests that unlaid eggs from slaughtered turtles can be popped into the local hooch, offering aphrodisiacal qualities.
The hitch in collecting scattered litter was a driftwood super-splinter which speared into my thigh and had to be sliced out with a razor-blade at the clinic. If you ask Tony, he will say it was only a centimetre long, but I’m claiming more matchstick-sized! May 26th notched up our 10 Year wedding anniversary. Most couples celebrate with a romantic break to Paris, or tickets to the theatre, perhaps even a gold bracelet. We "bought" wristbands for the local 5 star hotel and indulged in an evening of all-inclusive food and drink. We tripped home many pina coladas later, geared up for another 10 more years!
On May 27th, I jumped on the school bus with a heinous hangover. I had foolishly arranged to paint the faces of 25 three to four year olds at Daniel’s playschool. I hadn’t organised an Official Birthday Party, so I defused my guilt with a freebie face painting sesh.
I told the teacher that I would decorate each child’s cheek with a small motif (thus sparing me much time and energy, in my fragile state). With typical teacher fascism she blustered me into painting a full face each. 15 butterflies, 5 Spidermen, 4 pirates and a tiger later, I felt I had duly done my bit.
May 29th celebrated Daniel’s 4th Birthday. Keeping consistent with protocol for child number three, it was very low-key (code for cheap). No Mr Custard magic man at £200 a pop for him. We went to the beach, and ate lots of cake and ice-cream. His official treat was a pool party, with pass the parcel and general frolicking about in the sunshine. My last day of May was spent running round the main town of Espargos (Asparagus), looking for Fidel Castro, a local town council employee I needed to talk to. Glancing behind me, I expected to catch a small army of local officials sniggering at me from behind lamp posts. Eventually I found him, and didn’t even raise a giggle. I’m used to it. Cape Verdean’s tucked into crazy baby names way before Gwyneth’s Apple. Telecommunications seems the way to go here. I have met so many Ericssons and can’t wait for a Nokia. Maybe he lives in the small Chinese community around the corner?
Well, that’s May 2011. It has been full of hard work (for the children) and fun (for the family). Our holiday has finished and the reality of hard work and commitment has begun.
I hope we can make this our home. The potential is there, so let’s keep our fingers crossed.
