Tranqüilidade

Everything is part of the adventure. The dangerous driving, the bottled water, the sheets that are rarely changed. You love the taxi driver who stops two or three times to pray on a rug, and once to buy fruit for a friend with a new baby, delivering the fruit before delivering you to your destination.

You are impressed that the locals can balance themselves on boat gunnels, their buttocks touching their heels, and you don’t mind the baby chicks pecking at the ground under your lunch table. Too late, you understand a woman’s confusion when you ask where you might take a hike —you drive a car in search of recreational walking and she treks five miles with six gallons of water on her head. The heaviest thing you carry when you speak to her is a roll of toilet paper, rarely provided in public restrooms.

You attempt to speak the local language, using hand motions and smiles to communicate, and you notice that roosters say something other than cock-a-doodle-do in the morning. In a small plane, the pilot announces that the law requires spraying, so you cover your nose and mouth while the flight attendant sprays the cabin with…something. You hope you won’t need the plastic seasickness bag given to you on the ferry. You notice rows of sugar cane and bananas and rows of unfinished houses with strips of rebar emerging from concrete blocks. The dust in your throat is not comfortable, but you are here because you are comfortable outside your comfort zone, and so is Tom.

First, you fly to Senegal and meet the driver who stops to pray and stops again to buy fruit for his friend with the baby. Then, you fly to Cape Verde on the plane that is sprayed with… something. On Santiago Island, you stand where the slaves were sold and sent to your country, and then fly to Sao Vincente where you hear music everywhere, believing the sound is African, Carribbean, and Frank Sinatra, all at the same time. You are sunburned on the ferry from Sao Vincente to Sao Antao, but your stomach is intact. Tom talks to twenty different people during the ride, describing his career, but you look at the sea.

You and Tom meet a beautiful woman behind an information desk in Sao Vincente, who helps you arrange for a car on Sao Antao. She tells you that her great, great grandfather was from Iceland and was white like you, that he had blond hair and green eyes. She tells you that some in her family are as white as you, and some, including her mother, are very black. The caramel colored woman tells you that most Cape Verdean families are a mix of European and African blood. You are intrigued.

You arrive in Porto Novo, Sao Antao, secure your four wheel drive vehicle, and begin the journey to Tarrafal, to a guest house called Tranqüilidade. The man who rents you the car tells you, “O cominho para a Tranqüilidade e dificil,” The road to tranquility is difficult. But you don’t care.

You leave town and drive on smooth blacktop for fifteen minutes before encountering roads constructed of hand hewn rocks—flat, volcanic, cobblestones, the size of your feet. You encounter one bumpy switchback after another as you ascend and descend dusty, orange hills. Both you and Tom pay close attention to each blind corner, though there is no way to see what’s on the other side.

An hour outside Porto Novo, the road becomes dirt and loose rocks. You are thirsty because of the dust.

“I think we should turn back while it’s still light.” Tom suggests. Finish lines are not important to him. You say you want to stay the course because you always do.

You notice that people gather rocks and construct short, circular homes for themselves, and short, circular pens for their goats, and you wonder what goats eat in the high desert. Then you realize the large trucks that approach you on scary corners drop off supplies. You’re relieved you have enough food and water, and believe you can safely spend the night sleeping in the car if necessary. Tom doesn’t share your optimism about the contingency plan, and this is no surprise to you.

The road becomes more taxing as you get closer to Tarrafal. You don’t know that the town, set between the sea and the mountains, won’t be visible until you drive into it. You encounter worse terrain, large orphan rocks, fear, patience, hope. You feel as if you’re driving across Mars and try not to think about the possibility of a flat tire or mechanical problem. Although you see few vehicles coming toward you, you blow your horn at every blind turn and imagine a collision.

You gently give Tom driving advice, holding tight to the grab-handle above your window, stabilizing your rocking body to protect your head and neck.

“I think if you just go slower, we’ll be able to adjust if someone comes around the corner.” you say.

“This is fucked up. I’m doing the best I can. Maybe you want to drive?”

He’s holding the steering wheel tightly and his shoulders almost touch his ears.

You are up for driving, but you forget that Tom, though not necessarily the better driver, is definitely the worse passenger. You are annoyed by the loud warnings he is constantly offering, by the excess emotion.

“Shift to second…Get over to the right side more…You’re in the middle of the road. You have to be ready if someone comes the other way…Shit, you’re going to kill us.”

You see three cars in three hours.

“Calm down. I can’t drive safely with you screaming.” you say.

You are no longer calm and Tom becomes more anxious, reiterating the mistakes you make. At a certain moment, Tom’s volume is deafening. You pull over and exit the vehicle. You walk a hundred yards and sit on a rock, taking in the view. You wish you had supplies so you could keep on walking. You sit for thirty minutes, not able to listen to Tom anymore, not thinking you could ever get back into the glass and metal box with him. But you know you could die if you decided to go it alone on this road. You question everything you ever thought about relationships and you wonder why marriage can’t be tranquil.

You walk back to the car, stand by the window and calmly, but firmly, say, “I am respectful and supportive when you drive, not because I’m not nervous, and not because you drive perfectly. I just don’t think becoming loud and overwrought helps the situation—it makes it worse. Unless you’re prepared to respect me, I’m not going with you.”

“Okay.” Tom knows if he defends himself, you will have many more words for him, he will become exhausted by them, and he will never win because you don’t give in. You get in the car and you both start over, but there are no apologies.

An hour later, you see the ocean, but you do not see Tarrafal. Instead, you see more orange dirt mountains carved with more switchbacks, and two other vehicles traveling back and forth in the distance. You know they had to come from somewhere. You are hopeful when you see a building in the distance, but it’s only a lighthouse and the road takes you away from it. Your car is covered with dust. You are covered with dust. Your throat is full of dust. You aren’t able to decide whether to leave the window open for air or close it to keep the dust out.

You continue back and forth, slowly descending. After an hour, you are close to sea level and have trouble controlling the vehicle in the deep beach sand, have trouble maintaining your confidence. A truck approaches from the opposite direction and pulls up to chat. The driver wears an orange and brown scarf, tightly tied in front of his nose and mouth, to shield his face from the sand. He pulls it down to reveal a brown face that seems surprised to see you. This worries you. Your Portuguese is limited, so you point ahead of you and say, “Tarrafal?” He nods and points and says, “Si.” You thank him and press the gas, choosing a higher speed to maintain traction on the sand, hoping you won’t flip over or get stuck.

Five minutes later, you are in the center of Tarrafal, volcanic mountains on you right, and a noisy sea full of colorful fishing boats on your left. You ask where to find Tranqüilidade and a young black man with a missing tooth and an American baseball cap tells you to go back one-hundred meters. You find the funky guest house looking out at the sea and buy two beers.

“Here’s to you, beautiful,” says Tom, and you know he means it. He’s always the flirt, always in the moment, never one to waste time on conciliatory words. You drink the beer and feel happy. You hate Tom and you love Tom. You remember that the road to tranquility is difficult and that you have only just begun.

Acknowledgement: This story was first published in the print anthology, Everywhere Stories: Short Fiction from a Small Planet, Vol 3.