Cinquenta Mil. 00.

I am at Espargos.

I am on the ground floor of this interesting white apartment complex.

I saw this wooden reclining chair under the shade of some overhanging staircase structure. Facing the courtyard with the garden and the playground.

I was talking with the receptionist earlier. Asking her about the cost of renting one of the apartments.

She was occupied with something throughout. I think she was doing something with her nails. Or her phone, one of them.

She muttered something in Cape Verdean Creole. I wasn’t at all sure what she said.

I probed a bit more.

She muttered some more incomprehensible Creole in-between her doing whatever-it-was she was doing with her nails or her phone.

This time I caught something: Cinco mil or something like that.

Five thousand.

Five thousand for rent.

Now I just don’t know what currency she’s talking about.

Five thousand Euros?

Five thousand Cape Verdean Escudos?

Both are accepted as legal tender in this country.

The US dollar is not. Even the Euro cents are not. I recently had to wish my collection of Dollar and Euro cents goodbye. I stacked them on the ledge of a grocery store window and sadly walked away.

There was just no point in keeping the brown metal discs which were nothing but an illusion of money.

The official at the bank said unlike foreign currency notes, coins posed too much of a logistical complication. They could exchange tourists’ dollar notes for local currency- They would simply have to ship the bag of collected Dollar notes to their HQ on another island.

Things weren’t so easy with coins because of the weight. Shipping bags of coins? Coins worth how much exactly?

She had a point. It was still sad to abandon the coins though. I could have really used the extra change.

---

I had no idea what the absent-minded receptionist was saying exactly.

And she did not look like she was in the mood for more questions.

I’ve got like fifty euros in a Cape Verdean bank account I recently opened.

I had this monthly financial agreement with an NGO in Nigeria which I had to rejuvenate upon the commencement of this gap year from college in the USA.

Right now I get about Fifty euros per month as a stipend for sending in monthly updates on an AI project I’ve been working on for a while.

Fifty euros, more or less. The Naira-to-Euro exchange rate usually fluctuates across months.

A new instalment came in a few days ago.

---

I head to the ATM to withdraw Fifty euros.

Fifty euros is equivalent to about Five thousand Cape Verdean Escudos.

The occupied receptionist said rent was five thousand.

It couldn’t have been five thousand Cape Verdean escudos could it?

Fifty euros? For those freshly constructed multi-storey apartments?

But wait- It also couldn’t have been five thousand Euros. For rent. For a month.

Or did she mean a year?

I’m somewhat confused.

But right now I’m not putting too much effort in understanding what is going on. I withdraw a bunch of notes from the ATM- Pieces of paper with numbers and portraits printed on them- the usual.

I head back to the receptionist and pass her the bunch of notes.

If she gives me the key to an apartment right now, I won’t even complain.

She looks at me with a strange sneer on her face, muttering some more incomprehensible Creole.

I don’t understand her own Creole. I’ve been on this island for over six months now, and I feel like I know enough Creole to at least get by.

But this receptionist- This strange woman that’s always attending to me from one small corner of her eye- I don’t understand what language she’s speaking.

Somewhere amidst the befuddling spray of unintelligible sounds coming from her, I discern yet again another number:

Cinquenta mil.

The rent is ten times higher than I thought it was. It’s not fifty euros, it’s five hundred. Fifty thousand Cape Verdean Escudos.

I have no idea where the miscommunication was from. Her inattention, her incomprehensible Creole, or the deceptive intricacies of currency exchange rates. I have absolutely no idea.

I was just thinking:

She mentioned a number.

I got some notes.

If I’m given an apartment key, I won’t even ask questions. I’ll collect it with gratitude and bask in appreciation of the strokes of good fortune in life which are beyond one’s comprehension.

---

I am at the Police station.

The wooden reclining chair I was lying on, was for the security guard.

He didn’t even communicate with me directly, like Hey you that’s my chair– he just called the Police.

Oh God.

I am seated in a room.

Opposite me is Carlos- the Commander of Police on the island.

We met earlier in the year- about two weeks after I arrived Cape Verde for the gap year.

I had just gotten arrested on the beach at the southernmost end of the island.

At some point I realized I was arrested just for walking along the beach at night.

A number of disturbing incidents had happened in the past where some inimical natives had robbed, injured, and in one case, killed a tourist.

These malevolent natives were usually walking along the beach at night, from where they intercepted unsuspecting tourists strolling around the beachfront hotels where they were lodged.

I- completely unaware of all that, was sauntering through the wet sand that night, thinking about how to navigate the mathematical nuances of building a custom neural network library from scratch using the Python programming language.

I had my computer and other accessories on the porch of an interesting empty-looking cabin I came across.

I was strolling along the coastline, absorbing some serious inspiration as the periodic crashing of the ocean waves massaged my ears and enveloped me in their riotous, transcendent rhythm.

I was wearing a hoodie.

And the hood was up, covering my face.

Prime suspect. I was definitely planning to kill someone. Like, without a doubt.

The ferocity with which I was bundled and thrown into the Police van though.

Oh God.

---

Samuel.

I don’t understand.

You can’t just keep roaming about like this.

You need a job. You need a place to stay.

You need ehh,

He gesticulates-

Condicão.

It is Carlos- the Commander of Police.

Samuel is the first name in my international passport.

I’m just sitting in this chair and feeling very irresponsible.

I’m here again.

Oh man.

I attempt to give some sort of an explanation. Give information on some of my professional-esque involvements with a Spanish Biodiversity NGO on the island.

At some point Carlos goes:

Hm, you’re very good with words.

In my head I’m probably thinking:

This guy likes me. I should stop disappointing him by getting arrested all the time.

He asks me some questions. Asks me what I think of him.

I say I think he’s a cool guy. That he has a particularly difficult and stressful job but he still manages to mantain a very jovial demeanor.

He’s excited by my perspective.

He says, Yes yes- Smile- Smile is good! Smile is good!! You smile, you know? You smile!!!

At some point the Police let me go.

Somewhere at the back of my mind I thought maybe they would give me a place to stay- You know, maybe one of those five hundred million euros apartment with the receptionist who is always engrossed in her nails.

You know, for some condicão.

I don’t know, I was just thinking.

---

I am at a bar.

I’m drinking some Cape Verdean beer.

…..

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Image: Earlier that year.

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This post is one in a Series. The other pieces in the series can be accessed here.

Detainment at Abeokuta. Part 2.

This post is one in a Series. A list of all of the posts in this Series can be accessed here.

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Olorun lo yo e pe o o try lati salo. A o ba ti yin ibon si e lese!!

You were fortunate you didn’t try to run away. We would have shot you in the legs!!

Osama is speaking, as I am being bound in some pretty thick-looking ropes.

I have been explaining that I came to Abeokuta to check out some tourist attractions. I intended to spend the night in the hotel next door, but decided against it given that my bank account balance was just a little higher than the cost of staying a night.

I spent the past year and a few months living in a country where I was free to spend nights out camping or just chilling in the open expanse of unoccupied desert that generally stretched across the entire archipelago.

I have been in Nigeria a number of weeks, after close to three years of living in three different countries, each on a different continent. Now I’m sitting here on the floor while my hands and feet are being bound by a duo of night watchmen, one of whom is named after an ex-FBI most wanted terrorist. I am gradually coming to a realization that open idle expanses of land and vegetation are not viewed with the same idyllic innocuousness that I personally grew used to seeing them while in Cape Verde.

Here, some ambiguous being lying down on a pile of gravel in an empty parcel of land- in the dark, is not some post-clubbing guy chilling in the night’s air and looking at the stars- what fucking stars. He is a thief, employing darkness-induced anonymity to actualize his dastardly thieving intentions. As a matter of fact he is one of the reprehensible thieves who stole the tires of a neighbouring truck last week. He should be shot in the legs if he tries to run away, and he should be bound in thick ropes by Osama Bin Laden.

There are three entities surrounding me right now. One is Osama. The other is the second watchman. The third stands further back, silent. An unspeaking silhouette. A mute menacing shadow whose name is Reverse Culture Shock.

---

It is morning.

The ropes have been loosened. Osama interrogates me some more under the newly-arrived light of day. He seems much less suspicious of my story now. I think I don’t look so much like the typical Abeokuta thief.

I am in an acrid mood.

This Abeokuta is a horrible place. Nobody dances in their clubs. Everyone just sits down and drinks beer and looks very composed. Like they are at a job interview. I wonder why you would go to a club and just sit down and look very serious and composed and judgmental. You might as well have just spent the night at your place of work.

I skimmed through about four different clubs last night before I found one that was somewhat amenable to dancing. At the penultimate one I checked, some guy threatened to punch me in the face when I asked for a puff of what he was smoking.

I was like, Okay I am in the wrong place. I am in the motherfucking wrong place and I need to get out of here ASAP.

All of these Nigerian people are just so angry, I have absolutely no idea why.

Some guy chatted me up while I was leaving the last club. Said he loved my dance moves. I expressed appreciation at the compliment. He said I must be very happy. And then said for me to be that happy, I must have a lot of money. Then he asked if I could give him some money.

He didn’t really look like someone who was in need of money to solve fundamental life problems or anything. He didn’t look malnourished or without a place to stay or anything. He looked like someone who was pretty okay, but was in search of more. More money.

Ugh. These people and money.

Now I’m here, trying to make sense of last night. Bound with ropes and verbally accosted and threatened by a very fulfilled Osama Bin Laden throughout the night.

What sort of a place is this?

I am in a very acrid mood.

Osama says I need to call someone. Someone to come vouch for me. Says my father is alright.

Oh God. My father and I have just had a very turbulent year. Some very intense disagreements on life direction. I do not want to bring him into this. Ah Christ.

But Osama has spoken. I make the call. Now my father will have to travel all the way down to the state capital this early morning to facilitate a resolution of this issue. Ah Christ.

Osama senses the pungent displeasure in my mood. Says I should go get some food to eat. Points me in the direction of a woman selling some freshly made rice and beans and spaghetti and stuff. Usual Southwestern Nigeria roadside breakfast combo.

I am not in a mood for food right now. Recent experiences have been extremely unpleasant. I let Osama know I am not in a mood for food. He says I should get the hell up and go eat something.

Again Osama has spoken.

---

I am eating breakfast.

Rice and beans and spaghetti, with the usual scintillating tomato sauce and some animal protein.

The food is very good. These roadside sellers are generally very reliable with regard to some serious stimulation of the taste-buds.

I am munching on the food. I can feel my mood getting better very quickly. I don’t like it. I want to keep being annoyed and I want to make Osama feel extremely guilty for putting me through this very annoying experience when I committed no actual crime.

I keep eating. Enjoying the food, while being annoyed at how quickly it is ridding me of my acrimonious annoyance and concentrated displeasure.

---

I am back with Osama.

He just bought some traditional alcoholic bitters from a roadside peddler. I say I’d like to try some bitters. He advices me not to. Says the smell is very strong and my father will perceive it the moment he sees me. Says my father will know I’ve been drinking questionable alcoholic bitters first thing in the morning. Says he himself is circumspect with the drink whenever his parents are coming around.

I am surprised. I am very surprised.

From hearing Osama exchanging morning pleasantries with some neighbouring traders, I know he has a wife. A wife and two children.

Osama. Osama Bin Laden. FBI Most Wanted Terrorist. Hiding his alcoholic predilections from his parents. Okay. Very unexpected. Very very unexpected.

I thought adults could do whatever they wanted, regardless of their parents’ perspective on acceptable behaviour. I thought a man with a wife and two children could drink strong-smelling alcoholic bitters first thing in the morning if he wanted to, and not have to worry about what his Dad and Mum would say.

I am surprised. I am very surprised. Apparently this whole adult thing is a bit different from what I thought it was.

I keep pondering this astounding observation, while contemplating the complications of my own situation.

Osama is happily sipping on his strong-smelling traditional alcoholic bitters.

---

Image: A different part of the state, but still generally consistent with the environmental appearance of the more rustic parts of Abeokuta.

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Now Playing:

January 2 2017. Nelson Mandela International Airport, Santiago Island, Cape Verde. [2]

It is daybreak. It is my first morning in Cape Verde.

Rolph has left for Maio.

I feel sad. There’s this poignant, albeit relatively brief, sense of aloneness I experience whenever I’m separated from a travel companion. I felt it when the Mozambican left to catch his flight in Lisbon. Now I feel it again.

The airport here feels small. I felt like I spent almost an entire day exploring the airport in Lisbon. The airport here at Praia looks like it’ll take about fifteen to twenty minutes. Skateboarding is not even a possibility. Relative to airports in major European cities, this place feels squeezed.

It is warm. The air is warm- possibly as a function of the climate here, but at the same time I can also feel the warmth of the bodies moving around in the room.

The floor tiles look like they cost less. Everywhere looks less new and less glossy. It takes a while to appreciate this relative absence of glossiness.

The bathroom reminds me of Nigeria. Not in any negative way, no. The sanitary wares just look like the types used in Nigeria.

The morning air smells of leaves and transpiration and the uncertainty of the future.

I’ve had this piece of paper with me since Lisbon. I’ve been writing poems on it. Poems about heartbreak and nostalgia and anxiety. I wrote one about airports. The title is “An airport is multiple places”.

There are some small planes outside for inter-island flights. This is my first time seeing a plane with actual propellers- so far I have only physically seen planes with jet engines. The blades are black, with one like a fan on each wing.

There was an issue at check-in. I was told that I wouldn’t be allowed to board the plane with my skateboard. I didn’t understand.

---

---

What? Why?

The immigration officer talking with me, engages in some additional consultation with a woman who appears to be his boss in the airport employee hierarchy.

He says they’re trying to prevent a situation where the skateboard is used as a weapon to harm the people on the plane.

I am very shocked. I have never heard that before.

Whattt???

Eventually we agree to transport it as baggage. And I don’t have to pay for it. The officer promises to have it transported safely. I think we exchange a knowing look— He himself is surprised by the sudden policy on skateboards. I think his boss is just being irrational this morning.

---

---

I am in the plane. It is a small plane, even smaller than the Wow airlines discount flight I used with an Indian classmate a number of months before.

The plane is sparsely occupied. I think I am the only one on my row, which has about four seats.

There is a brightly colored picture of a laughing Cape Verdean woman dressed in very interesting attire. The picture is up in a number of places in the plane. I’ll later see the same picture on the packaging of some traditional Cape Verdean coffee.

There is a guy a number of rows ahead of me. I have heard him chattering excitedly in Creole since I got in. It is most likely his first time flying. He keeps laughing and chatting euphorically and bouncing on his seat and peering through the window.

The environment in this country feels very different from Germany, where I lived for a number of months. Amongst other things, I am still trying to get used to being around so many black bodies.

The plane takes off.

---

We are flying over Sal. I stare down at the bright brown undulating desert sand, mesmerized.

We touchdown at Aeroporto Internacional Amilcar Cabral, somewhere in the middle of the island.

As I exit the plane, I am welcomed with the warm, relatively-humid air of Sal.

Like Praia, we exit the plane by walking down the stairway at the side. In my previous travel experiences, there was usually this channel that led from the airplane door to the airport- travelers never actually used the stairway thing.

The airport is sparse. There is an excited couple getting their bags. I think the woman is pretty.

At some point I’m the only one in the entrance hall and there’s no other traveler in sight.

It is so bright and sunny here. It is the polar opposite of cold grey Berlin. I will later find myself in situations (mostly in Nigeria) where people do not understand why I sometimes just lie out in the sun.

The dull grey cold of winter in Berlin gave me a deep-seated appreciation for sunlight and atmospheric warmth. People who have spent (usually) all of their lives in tropical climates generally see spending extended amounts of time out in the sun, as punishment and as something to be avoided.

And so it’s exceptionally strange for such people to see me lying out in the sun and “punishing myself”. Although it definitely has to be said that the intensity of the sunlight in Nigeria can sometimes be highly unconducive to leisurely naps.

My skateboard landed safely, as promised.

In about four months I’ll give this skateboard as a gift to a neighbor- the younger brother of the Cape Verdean guy with an estranged European family. I bought it at a skate shop along Market street in San Francisco. It has a picture of rotting fruits on the underside. I liked the picture because at the time I bought it, I felt like I needed some sour stimulus- something to jar my reality.

Skateboarding will not be as much of a priority in a few months. I’ll be spending tons of time, energy and concentration figuring out my plans for the future and for my life. There won’t be much spare energy to channel into skateboarding.

I leave my bags at the airport entrance, and go skateboard in the car park. I do this for about two minutes before airport security stops me.

In my perspective, one major difference between the urban experience in relatively developed countries and developing ones, is the presence of stricter security around buildings (and generally locations) of attraction in developing countries.

In relatively developed countries, pretty much everywhere looks nice. In developing countries the relatively nice looking places highly contrast with the less aesthetically pleasing areas (this is also usually the case with regard to relative socioeconomic advancement) and usually require stricter security to prevent such locations from devolving into the less admirable conditions prevalent in the immediate environment.

A consequence of this, is that people living in developing countries acquire this learned inhibition around these locations. Coming from the West however, these locations didn’t seem overwhelmingly awesome to me — They were nice, yeah- just not to the point where I would feel any inhibition around them. And so I would be skating around a relatively nice looking building- like:

Yeah I used to skate around the buildings in Berlin like this.

To the residents however, my behavior was strange, somewhat disrespectful, and (especially to security) unacceptable. After overcoming the stupefaction they experienced regarding how I was able to move about so freely and carefreely in such a “NIICEEE” environment, they would stop me and generally try to influence me in the direction of a more inhibited and self-conscious disposition.

It always pissed me off.

I pick up my bags and get a taxi to Espargos.

The next time I’ll be inside this airport, I’ll be coming out of a police van after spending the night in a cell at Espargos.

I’ll meet Carlos- the Commander of Police on the island. I’ll perceive him to be a pretty interesting guy- very admirable biceps. Conscientious and determined, yet open enough to smile and be friendly.

We’ll sort out the misunderstanding which led to my arrest. We’ll have an interesting conversation and at some point he’ll attempt to introduce one of the very attractive Cape Verdean women working in the airport, to me as a potential girlfriend. She’ll look even more appealing given that I spent the night before languishing in a dark and unfriendly cell at the station. I’ll be too self-conscious after such an experience, to give much thought to his proposition.

We’ll talk some more- he’ll talk briefly about his childhood, and the determination which drove him to acquire a foreign education. He’ll talk to me about some issues he’s facing on the job. Regarding unwanted immigrants and difficulties with politely returning them to their countries of origin.

I’ll wonder why the Commander of Police is talking to me about these things. I’ll wonder what about me makes him afford me such regard. I’ll wonder why he thinks I could possibly have something helpful to say.

I mean, if I take some time to think I’ll probably come up with something- but I wonder what gives him that impression about me. Me who was brought here in a police van, freshly released from handcuffs and a night in the cell at the Espargos police station.

———

Image: Walking along the major expressway in Sal.

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This post is directly connected with a number of others. An index of these other posts can be accessed here.

Cape Verde: A Night In Police Custody. 01.

Part 1.

The Arrest:

My face is pushed against the side of the van. There are about four Cape Verdean policemen holding me still, muttering excitedly to one another in Creole, while one of them briskly handcuffs my wrists behind my back.

Unintelligible Creole words bounce about in the chilly midnight air around me. A multiplicity of strong hands grip me in different places, rendering me helplessly immobile. I feel the cold unfriendly metal of their handcuffs bite into my wrists. In all of this disorienting confusion, I am most taken aback by the hostility palpable beneath the actions of my assailants. Their voices are derisive- I can perceive that even though I understand nothing of what they are saying. Their hands are oppressive- thoroughly communicating the overbearing will of their owners, without even a smidge of regard for my comprehensively violated sense of self respect.

“I am an escola at Estados Unidos!” I cry out.

I honestly do not know if I am speaking English, Portuguese or Cape Verdean Creole. I am simply stringing together some of the few words I learnt from Clayton, the manager of the small hotel I lodged in a few days ago.

In the few days I have spent in this country, I have become aware of the level of regard  Cape Verdean natives have for visitors from the west. Telling people I go to school in the USA makes them afford me a different level of respect. I do not like it. In fact I hate it. I find it very irritating to think that I have to affiliate myself with “the white man” to be respected by black people. Irritating as it is though, it is ridiculously effective at making the people here treat me like a celebrity. So sometimes I do it.

Like now.

“I am an escola at Estados Unidos!” I cry out again.

I wait for some sort of reaction.

I wait.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. The excited Creole words still bounce about. The roughandling still continues. I am still haplessly pinned to the side of their police van.

One of the policemen makes the handcuffs even tighter between my wrists. My hands feel contorted- like they have been forced to assume a position they were not designed for.

I stand there. Unmoving. Flabbergasted. Utterly clueless as to why all of this is happening to me.

————————————————————————-

In the Van:

I peer at the outside world through the small opening at the back of the van. My hands are handcuffed behind my back, and so it is difficult to keep my balance. It is also difficult to prevent my face from hitting the back of the van as I peer outside. I think the driver is swerving unnecessarily from side to side to make the ride very uncomfortable for me.

The bright orange halogen street lights recede from me as the van moves forward. Street lights have never looked so beautiful. So desirable. Right now they represent freedom. Liberty. Something which is currently, painfully beyond my reach.

I am not sure why, but I feel like the policemen are enjoying themselves. In a tyrannical sort of way.

Swerving to make my ride more uncomfortable?

Really?

Or maybe they aren’t swerving at all. Maybe the captivity of the small dark van is amplifying whatever small movements the vehicle makes. Maybe this confinement is messing with my senses.

————————————————————————————-

In the Cell:

Was I correctly implementing the matrix multiplication?

During back propagation I think I was supposed to transpose the gradient matrix before multiplying with the neural network weights to update them. Did I do that?

Did I make the right choice for the learning rate?

You know what, I’m not sure. Maybe that was why my code was not working as it was supposed to. Maybe.

The room is dark and still and quiet. The only light here is faint and distant- a tired beam that peeps through the remarkably tiny window situated high on the wall above my head.

I am lying on a hard concrete bench. I think the bench was cold at first, but it gradually warmed up to contact from my body. Time seems to make this alien room a little more tolerable. Even the hardness of the bench seems to gradually become less offending to my back.

I occupy myself with thoughts of computer programming. I was programming on my computer when I got arrested at the beach. I was trying to build a neural network module from scratch. I was working to acquire a deep understanding of how they work- neural networks.

Things have taken a different turn now, but I think I have regained enough of my composure to continue what I was working on. My computer and other accessories have been seized by the police, but I still have my mind. Some of it at least. So I keep thinking about programming.

Why was I having that annoying issue with the three dimensional visualisation? Is my Matplotlib up to date?

…

———————————————————————————-

It is morning.

I am in the police van again. They say I should take them to where I stay.

So I take them.

We alight from the van. I lead the way to my room in the hotel where I am lodged. The policemen begin to push me for no reason. They seem to just derive pleasure from making me uncomfortable.

I do not like it. I stop walking, and begin to protest. One of them strikes me across the back with his baton.

I do not flinch. I got hit by thick sticks and leather belts and many other unfriendly objects while in boarding school in Nigeria.

Your stick isn’t really a big deal Mister policeman.

————————————————————————————

We’re back at the station. The policemen turned my hotel room completely upside-down. I have no idea what they were looking for. They got a good look at my international passport with the different visas that were on it, my school identity card, and some of my other means of identification.

One of them looked at me and said, “So you’re a smart guy right?”.

I had no idea what he was talking about. I began to wonder what exactly gave him the false impression that I was an intelligent individual. Like dude, look at the situation I am in right now. Look at my life. I do not feel very smart. I do not feel smart at all.

I am led into an office. Seated across me is the man who seems to be in charge of this place. I sit down and we talk.

After he asks me some questions, my mugshot is taken. This is the first time I have had a mugshot taken of me. It’s not as glamorous as I expected. Apparently, here they don’t have the interesting black and white Hollywood-movie background that shows how tall you are. What a shame. I would have liked that. I’m pretty tall. It would have looked really cool.

I am made to fill a police report.

The police boss gives some instructions in Creole to his men, and a number of them march me outside the station and into another van.

I am no longer in handcuffs, but the men are still ordering me around and treating me very roughly.

I wonder where they are taking me now.

I wonder.

End of Part 1.

Image Credits: https://www.cnc3.co.tt/press-release/3-men-escape-police-custody

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This post is one in a Series. The other pieces in the Series can be accessed here.