By Jayant Kairam Ex-Peace Corps Volunteer in CV & FORCV Correspondent in New York

This is the second in a series of articles documenting my experiences in the village of Rincon on the island of Santiago. The first piece dealt with the effects of past disappointments and pain on the town’s psyche. This one discusses the issue of the challenges of the present and local motivation to seek change.

The Ribera Selada is an arid, black canyon that snakes from the island highlands to the coast of Rincon. Early each morning small bands of mostly women, make their way into the valley to labor among mounds of sand, or follow its rocky paths to work distant orchards or scour barren hillsides for linha (firewood). The Ribera is perhaps the village’s most striking geographic feature. Trucks heading into town, balance themselves along the canyon’s edge, as they perform a whirlwind of gear shifts and gas and brake contortions on the road. Close to the shore, the Ribera’s southern wall makes a dramatic ninety degree turn forming an abrupt cliff face. In between the foot of this towering rock and the large bay of Rincon lay the part of the village known as Baxu La, a stretch of land marked by a small line of houses and the fading colors of beached rowboats. Across the Ribera’s plain and atop the canyon’s northern wall, which tapers off like a dagger stabbing the sea, rests Riba Chon, the main part of the village. Riba Chon’s cluttered maze of houses is the first sight of the village from the final crest of the road.

Rincon’s first inhabitants arrived sometime in the early 1900’s. Most came in from the interior towns of Cha di Tanque and Achada Grande in search of the sea and more promising returns than the ones gained from drought-stricken soil. They tracked the Ribera to its end and built shelters in the half-caves that pock the cliff face. Eventually they descended and put up the first stone houses in the southern reaches of Baxu La. As the first families gained in number, the town expanded northward, ultimately spilling onto the relatively flat red-brown perch of Riba Chon. Rincon’s very creation myth is rooted in a sense of potential, of opportunity. People sought it out, attracted by its perceived bounty. But, of course, that potential has yet to truly manifest itself—at least in a way strong enough to overcome the burden of anguish and despair over the past.

While a visitor is guaranteed to be awed by the rugged and scenic beauty of Rincon, the reality of the present quickly grounds them. Walking past the crumbling and dilapidated praca and into town, it quickly becomes apparent that the streets are not overrun with humans, but animals. Goats scramble up roofs and between houses, rangy chickens and scrawny dogs dart about. Yet, these seem like petty annoyances in comparison to the proliferation of one species: pigs. They roam the streets with a certain air of entitlement. They crowd into shady areas and laze about, nursing or scratching themselves against cinderblock walls. Their unsightly presence, which in my weaker moments drove me to unjustly jumpkick them, became a constant reminder of the true challenge of the village.

The town has gained some notoriety for its pig problem. Indeed, it was the second of the anecdotes (“Rincao ten cheio porku”) that I landed with. Over the years, various attempts from both the government and community groups were mounted to remedy the situation. The Ministry of Agriculture constructed a series of sties that were known in town as being better looking than most houses. They went unoccupied—as residents couldn’t agree on a system of usage. Older efforts were claimed to be too far out of town. Nominally sent to the village to finish a project building a communal sty, in truth, I encountered a situation of depleted financing, poor physical planning and a group more in interested in using materials for personal purposes like home improvements.

My initial reaction was to attribute these efforts to poverty. How could a poor and isolated community possess the resources to take on these projects? Moreover, residents struggled to meet daily needs let alone satisfy external ones—even if they offered potential long-term gain. Over time, I began to attest the collapses to institutional failure; results of the short-term agendas of local and national governments whose commitments neglected the issue of lasting viability. The initiatives served as more case studies in the inefficient management and accountability that had come to plague development. Yet, somehow, these answers were at best partial.

In town, it is common to eat outside. Seated atop overturned mortars, locals dine just outside their homes, chatting with neighbors and passers-by. It made for a wonderful community scene. Yet, I began to notice that these scenes were often corrupted by marauding pigs lured by discards tossed from plates. Eventually, black pails and flat pans filled with a veritable collection of food wastes would be brought out and emptied on the street just beyond a property line. The pigs, who were never satisfied with the offerings, often crept into homes trailing scents and spills.

It was not as though resident were unaware of the threats posed by an uncontrolled animal population. They were fairly knowledgeable about the public health consequences particularly in locale where sanitation facilities were scant if any. Moreover, they were very conscious of the negative imagery associated with the town’s reputation as a result of its “dirty streets.” I struggled to rationalize this glaring need with historic action. Only after repeated and candid conversations did something of a truth reveal itself. By feeding scraps to the pigs, residents rid themselves of garbage while keeping investments robust; a low-maintenance resolution embraced at a community level. While children constantly showed signs of various bacterial infections there was never a grave enough danger to harness fear into change. In part I believe projects fell apart because they never generated true community investment. But to a much greater extent residents didn’t want them. They appreciated and desired the concept, yet couldn’t be motivated to challenge something that wasn’t an obvious detriment on their way of life.

The pigs are a symbol of the present. Honestly confronting such a symbol, to me, signified a test, a challenge against the weight of acceptance and one complicated by the sting of past that haunted Rincon. If residents coveted a better life than they’d be motivated by change—but if what existed was good enough, then why see it through?