Cape Verde 2023

Cape Verde: Island Life Begins On Boa Vista

It looks a little strange from the air, rolling dunes topped with tufted grasses leading to desert-like landscapes where angular outcrops stand above dry, waterless canyons, dunes which form the hinterland to miles of empty golden beach. There’s not a single building to be seen until just before the wheels of the aeroplane touch down on the tarmac – and even then, it’s an airport terminal which looks more like a sand castle than a transport hub.

The island of Boa Vista fights two perpetual battles with nature. One, Sahara sand from continental Africa blows constantly across the island, shifting dunes from east to west and regularly forming damaging sand drifts which can choke roadways, buildings and villages. Two, despite supporting a population of nearly 20,000, Boa Vista has no natural water supply and relies entirely on desalination and a modest quantity of import. This is effectively a 244 square mile desert island, the closest to Africa, and the driest, of all of the islands which make up Cape Verde.

“We need a storm to come, to clear this humidity”, says Sylvia as she shows us around our first apartment, “it is bad just now”.

It is indeed humid – even the wind off the rolling Atlantic blows a warmth across the island; walk into the streets of Sal Rei village, out of the wind, and the air is, for an Atlantic island, unusually stifling. Sal Rei, a traditional village away from any hotel complexes and resorts, is pleasingly ramshackle. Rustic buildings thrive as cafes or fish restaurants, the skeletons of derelict tumbledown houses stand next door to similarly skeletal half built blocks, dusty streets are broken with loose cobbles and deep potholes. Large maingey dogs lay in sandy hollows to escape the heat.

Beautifully elegant women in traditional African dress of vibrant colours wander through town carrying anything from baskets of fruit to calor gas bottles or cool boxes on their head, brightly painted one-man fishing boats rest on the sand, street vendors hawk fresh fruit or patterned textiles from wheelbarrows. Now and then one of the little fishing boats glides up on to the sand as would-be buyers appear from doorways to inspect the catch. The proud fisherman hoists a bulging tuna aloft, hangs it from his hands, then sets about filleting it with his machete with all the precision of a surgeon.

According to the internet Boa Vista is the second most visited island of Cape Verde after Sal, yet down here in Avenida Pescadora at the fishermen’s end of Sal Rei village, you would never know it. Everything about Sal Rei moves at its own casual speed, an almost Caribbean sense of unhurried life where tides, trade winds and the size of today’s catch combine to dictate the pace. Watching village life here is like watching a film reel in slow motion.

Fifty-five kilometres of golden beach run along the coast of Boa Vista, sand so soft and fine as to feel like flour. Every few minutes the cross-island wind blows a gust, sending fine particles into every corner and crevice, instantly covering both human footprints and the crab tracks which form pathways between miniature burrows. You get a palpable sense of how inexorably mobile those dunes are just by watching these small changes; little wonder that sand drifts are such a problem.

We are lucky with our apartment, a converted fisherman’s house down here by the water where there always seems to be some sort of gentle activity: tiny fishing boats either arriving with bags of tuna and amberjack or just setting out to earn today’s wage. At sunset, an old guy brings a plastic chair to the shore just to watch the colours of the setting sun play on the water, even though he has seen this every day of his long life.

Back in the centre of the village, young boys and girls dive into the swirling waters from the concrete pier, then return after sundown to perform wheelies and other bicycle tricks in front of those enjoying a pre-dinner beer. Opting to join those with beers rather than those with bikes, we take our first sips of Strela, the local brew, which is crisp and malty and immediately gets a high score on the thirst-quench-o-meter.

The tuna steaks at Te Manche, the bar on the pier, are as fabulously tasty and juicy as you would expect from a catch which probably only left the boat a couple of hours ago. It’s truly delicious and sets the bar high for our Cape Verde food adventures. 

As the burnt orange sunset recedes, a twilight falls across the water, the incoming waves forming dark creases on the silver sea. Pinprick lights of masts twinkle some distance offshore, the gaudy colours of nearby boats fade to shades of grey as another day winds down. The locals still chatter loudly, the Atlantic still rumbles, neither sound abated by the onset of darkness.

Boa Vista will bookend this Cape Verde trip. We leave for our second island tomorrow, but so taken are we by our surroundings that we seek out Sylvia and snaffle the very same apartment for a few more days as we return down the island line in a couple of weeks’ time. We are already looking forward to returning.

There is a peace within the rough paradise which is Boa Vista, especially here among the fishermen’s families at the ramshackle far end of the village, a peace which speaks of such a different way of life. Island life.

From Boa Vista To Santiago: A Praia Arrangement 

There’s an endearing simplicity about the names of places on the Cape Verde islands, a simplicity which somehow reflects the unhurried, uncomplicated way of life here. The island with salt pans is called, simply, Salt; the island with hills is called Good View and a town with a sandy shore is named Beach. Perhaps even more amusing, the two islands with active volcanoes are named Fire and Angry. In the native tongue, these five are, respectively, Sal, Boa Vista, Praia, Fogo and Brava: translated into English they sound hilariously basic. You can’t get much more straightforward than names like those!

Thursday morning sees the hazy cloud lift and the humidity of the last couple of days dissolve into satisfying sunshine; it’s already hot as we wander down Avenida Pescadora towards breakfast in town. The locals are awake and sitting on doorsteps, virtually each one has a cheery greeting ready as we saunter by. Bidding temporary farewells to our host Sylvia we head back to the sand castle airport to make our way to the second island, Santiago.

Having discovered only yesterday that our inter-island flight has been re-scheduled for a few hours later, we arrive, as instructed, two hours before flight time, only to find that departure is 15:30 and not 14:30 as advised. Next comes a delay due to “operational difficulties”, pushing actual departure back to 17:30. Now, we can tell you that, picturesque as a sand castle airport may be, it loses pretty much all of its charm when you’ve been staring at the walls for as long as this. In the end, the door to door journey for a 35-minute flight takes over 7 hours.

Our pocket guide book says this: “some things on Cape Verde are fundamentally different. You should leave any expectations you have about punctuality at home”. Wise words, it would seem.

Consequently it’s dusk as we meet our next host in Praia, capital city of the Cape Verde Islands, at first glance a very different place from Sal Rei. Half of the population of Cape Verde live on Santiago, and half of the population of Santiago live in Praia. The city sits on a series of sharp hills, providing regular rewarding views across the port and out to sea as well as across the city itself. Centrally located within the city is the district which is Praia’s heart, a flat topped hill where much of the city’s buzz exists and which is named, in keeping with policy, Plateau.

Within this district we find the cacophonous and colourful food market where noise and activity levels are at the extreme end of the scale, then the renowned Sucupira Market which despite its reputation for verve is of far less interest and is actually surprisingly mundane. Colourful yes, exciting no. The district of Plateau is home to a leafy square, Praça Alexandre Alberqueque, a peaceful place where locals escape the bustle of the city and unwind, sit on shady benches or wile away time in the friendly cafe. Surrounded by several attractive colonial houses, a City Hall and the cathedral, the square is something of a green haven, though beneath its pleasant atmosphere lurks a dark history.

Praia was a major centre for the trading of slaves, and this square was the epicentre of the marketing of human beings for profit; Portuguese royalty made unprecedented wealth from trading human flesh here. To this day the locals ignore the new name of this square and still call it “the pillory”, a site not only of corporal punishment but also where slaves for sale were tied to a post and savagely beaten. The greater the beating they withstood, the higher the price they fetched. Brutal.

At the foot of Plateau we find a monument to Amilcar Cabral, a Cape Verdean hero and freedom fighter held in huge regard throughout certain parts of Western Africa. Cabral, originally from Guinea-Bissau but moved by family to Cape Verde at a young age, dedicated his life to the fight for independence for those countries colonised by Portugal, including both the land of his birth and his naturalised home. After a lifetime of embattlement, Cabral was assassinated in 1973, just two years before his campaign for the independence of Cape Verde reaped success.

From here we wander through the earthy neighbourhood of Santo Antonio, down to the dark sand beach of Quebra Canela where chilled music plays in smart beach bars just yards from the gritty streets of urban Praia. On the balconies of these bars, most of the punters seem to be locals enjoying their Saturday afternoon. Even on islands such as these, inequality is starkly inescapable.

I resort to Google translate to tell Rico there’s no hot water reaching our shower. “OK, I fix it”, he says, eager to please. Two days later, we’re still waiting, and Michaela resorts to cold washing some smalls in the bathroom sink. As she does this, there’s a sudden burst followed by loud splashing sounds as water washes across the floor into the bedroom: the waste pipe below the sink has become detached and is giving the floor an unscheduled dousing. “OK I fix it”, says Rico. It lasts all of two minutes before it pops off again. He gets it right at the second attempt, bless him – and that night, as if by magic, warm water cascades from the shower for the very first time. Rico rocks. Just not very quickly.

In truth Praia is not the most enthralling of cities, there isn’t a great deal here to tempt the traveller to linger. Its real joy is in its ambience, there is a lively, bustling atmosphere here which is at its most evident during daylight hours when goods are bought and sold, drummers caress the skins of their instrument with nimble hands and elegant ladies carry anything and everything balanced on their heads as they walk through town with absolute grace. It’s vividly colourful and its people are full of chatter, and indeed its hills are pleasing on the eye, but a few days here is enough to tick the travel boxes, so to speak.

Consequently our thoughts turn to what the rest of this island may have to offer and we seek out a local rental car operator and prepare to explore. It’s time to take a shower before we head out for evening meal. The water in the shower is freezing cold. Maybe Rico doesn’t rock after all.

One Man’s Passion: Rua d’Arte, Praia

Before we move on from Praia, we take another wander through its ripped backsides with an offbeat destination in mind: Rua d’Arte. Local artist Tutu Sousa, who honed his skills at Senegalese artistic workshops, later returned to Cape Verde and converted his childhood home into a studio and gallery. Augmenting his paintings by transforming the exterior of the house into a canvas, Tutu soon began persuading neighbours to allow expansion of the works until eventually the whole neighbourhood has become an open air gallery.

Here’s some examples of how it looks today….

Exploring Santiago: Northwards To Tarrafal

Language is interesting here: the tongue spoken by Cape Verdeans is known as Krioli, but due to the variations between the different versions spoken on each of the islands, there is not really an accepted definitive strain, either written or spoken. It certainly sounds more than a little unfamiliar to us, and even the Portuguese spoken here is uncharacteristically choppy to our ears. Fortunately, a degree of English is understood and, with the majority of the population being of Senegalese descent, French is pretty widespread. I think you could say we’re talking Babel most of the time. Makes a change from Drivel, I suppose.

Monday morning we collect our nicely shiny hire car, leave Praia behind and head northwards up the island, in the process making Cape Verde the 25th country in which we’ve driven – and what a spectacular drive it turns out to be. To make our way across Santiago from south to north, it’s necessary to cross two mountain ranges, the Pico d’Antonia and the Serra Malagueta, each of which offers dramatic views as we make our way along the quiet roads.

Green canyons drop below soaring rugged mountains, heavily farmed slopes filled with the parched gold of post-season maize and the verdant shades of fruit and veg decorate the levels between the two. Stop and stare and you can pick out the tiny shapes of farm workers down amongst the foliage, toiling beneath the midday sun. Mountain villages are alive with noisy schoolchildren, pick up trucks move produce and people from field to town and vice versa. Cattle and goats graze at the roadside.

At one stopping point somewhere beyond the market town of Assomada, looking down into the valleys, we suddenly realise that we are surrounded by giant black and yellow spiders hanging on webs resembling tennis court nets. Research tells us these are golden orb silk weavers, and wow there are literally hundreds suspended seemingly in mid air just waiting for the next victim to fall into their huge trap. These guys are amazing: they construct these giant webs in one session, working up to eight hours at a time to spin webs which in relation to their own body size is a silk mesh with the dimensions of a football pitch.

The beautifully positioned coastal town of Tarrafal comes into view just as we reach the top of the Serra Malagueta, its buildings wrapped around the shore between the soaring mountains and the Atlantic. Even from a distance we get a sense of excitement as we descend towards what looks like a town in a great location, and, once here, we aren’t disappointed; jet black volcanic rock meets deep blue sea fringed by pure white surf which tosses and flings itself into the waiting rock pools. The sun’s rays illuminate the town yet at the same time heavy dark cloud drapes the peaks of the mountains. It’s a spectacular introduction.

And then, tucked into the sides of the inlet which are Tarrafal’s outstretched arms, are three perfect horseshoe coves of golden sand where the waves roll in and locals join visitors in a game of beach volleyball. Here the black rock of lava becomes the golden tinge of sandstone on the cliffs which climb up behind and around the coves. Sipping a beer or two beneath the palms of the beach bar, we get the distinct feeling that Tarrafal is something of an unspoilt gem – perhaps just a bit too difficult to reach to ever become overblown, just far enough away from everywhere to retain its character.

Wide cobbled streets thread routes between houses, people move around with a languid, untroubled gait, chickens and dogs cross the road as if wildlife holds sway over the motor car. Music drifts through town as the sun goes down and all the while the throb and boom of the Atlantic waves underpins the soundtrack. Everything seems gentle, low key, perfectly in keeping with the feel of an unspoilt paradise where life simply ambles on, regardless. No stress, as the locals are prone to say.

Every day as midday approaches, the pageant which is Tarrafal’s focal point gets underway and the waterfront starts to buzz with activity as the fishing boats return from their morning sortie. It’s a terrific sight and wonderful to be part of. Gangs of guys haul the boats up the sand by hand one boat at a time, while the women of the village gather round, chattering excitedly and peering over the sides of the boats to view the catch within. The colour, buzz and animation of the next couple of hours is utterly enthralling.

One boat brings in a collection of huge tuna, another has no floor space left as dozens of what we think are grouper, snapper and wahoo line the bottom of the craft. Activity levels are high: women fill buckets with fish and sit down on the beach to start descaling or maybe filleting, guys with giant machetes begin to cut up the largest tuna, others carry the nets to the back of the beach to first unravel and then leave to dry. It’s the job of some to simply scoop bucketfuls of sea water from the boats and return it from whence it came.

Dancing suddenly provides humour in the middle of the serious business of processing the catch, raucous laughter breaks out as one guy shakes his ass and grabs partners at random. For a few moments, smiles beam and voices sing, before everybody returns to the job in hand. This whole scene, the whole pageant of hauling in the catch is, from beginning to end, a fascinating, endearing sight, yet one which is obviously a daily ritual – and is all the more engaging for that one simple fact.

It’s beginning to feel like a long time since we ate meat. The fish, particularly tuna, is so tasty and juicy, and – obviously – so fresh, that it’s hard to choose anything else from the menus. Fried moray eel as an appetiser? Goose barnacles in tomato sauce? Limpet stew? Why opt for anything as mundane as chicken when exciting options such as these are available.

We awake each morning to the sound of cockerels accompanying the rolling waves, the street outside soon full of children on the way to school and ladies carrying produce to and from the market. Days pass by at a certain pace in Tarrafal, much of the life of local folk feels time honoured and largely unaltered by progress. It is a calm, untroubled place. No stress, indeed. But then there’s a certain consistency here: the shortest days of the year have only two hours less daylight than the longest, the average temperature of the warmest month is only a few degrees higher than the coolest. Maybe such things play a part in creating this rather lovely vibe of contentment.

Tomorrow we embark on a hike in the Serra Malagueta to explore the wonderful mountain terrain of the north of Santiago. We thought this may entail an early start, but our guide says to meet in the square at 9am.

“That will be early enough”, he says, then adding “No stress”, just to remind us exactly where we are.

Hikes And Histories: More Of Tarrafal

It’s a few minutes before 9am and our guide Seeto is already waiting in the square, chatting and joking with friends. He meets us with the warmest of smiles but is continually interrupted by greetings, handshakes and fist pumps – you get the distinct feeling that everybody knows everyone else in Tarrafal. Seeto introduces us to our companions on today’s expedition, Alejo and Gabriella, on holiday here from near Albacete in Spain.

Today’s hike is a downhill challenge, we will be starting high up in the mountains of Serra Malagueta and dropping way, way down to arrive at the natural lake in the bottom of the canyon some three hours later. First then, a ride to the top in a “Tarrafal taxi” – in other words, the back of a pick up truck, climbing steadily up the winding roads to the edge of the national park.

Even before we leave the road the views are magnificent, but as soon as we head off on to the trail we are spellbound by the scene unfolding before us, green hillsides sweeping down to the glinting green-tinged mirror which is the lake way below. Unlike Boa Vista water is plentiful here – remarkable that two islands so close to each other can be so totally different, desert sands on one and verdant valleys on the other.

Seeto points out, as guides often do, plants with medicinal benefits, including the “lingua-de-vaca” (cow’s tongue), with its rough, sandpaper-like leaves which are apparently a treatment for haemorrhoids. Ouch. We don’t really want to think about that one too much. The steep slopes, despite their acute gradient, are regularly dotted with maize, fruit trees and herbs as the mountain folk utilise any possible workable space to cultivate produce.

At times the trail is tricky underfoot with rolling rocks and unstable sandy earth on the steep decline and concentration needs to be intense. Fortunately of the five of us we have just one faller; unfortunately it’s Michaela, who slips to the ground and lands heavily on her rear end. Cue much bruising and an aching butt for the next few days.

Now and again we pass the incredibly remote houses of the mountain folk, or a group working amongst the maize or fruit trees. They are eager to talk with Seeto and equally eager to do their best to communicate with us: Seeto explains that when life is as isolated and remote as theirs, some different company is a welcome interruption to their day. We make a brief stop at one of the modest family dwellings part way down the mountain, this is a remarkably rustic, remote lifestyle with absolutely no frills yet with happiness in clear abundance, a life undoubtedly with challenges but maybe without some of the pressures of the modern world. No stress?

It’s a terrific hike which like a good book saves its best moments till last as we reach the foot of our descent and approach the lake. Shortly after passing a sow and her piglets sleeping beneath a tree, a Cape Verde kingfisher, the national symbol, poses perfectly for a photo shoot before flying away to display the full extent of its vibrant colouring. It’s a beautiful bird well worthy of its national symbol status.

The ride back to Tarrafal is even more amusing than the outward journey, with no less than fourteen of us crammed in to the back of the little pick up truck for the bumpy half-hour ride back to town. We bid our farewells to Alejo and Gabriella and give our grateful thanks to Seeto, then head back into town to reflect on an excellent hike.

Until very recent times Tarrafal was even more isolated than it is today: only in the late 1980s when the road through the mountains was constructed was the town properly connected with the rest of the island, let alone the rest of the world. Such extreme isolation made Tarrafal the ideal, if that’s the right word, location for an appalling concentration camp which was to become known as The Camp Of Slow Death.

Initially, this camp was a prison for political dissidents of Portuguese colonies in Africa, a place where those opposing colonisation were imprisoned and treated with brutal inhumanity. Sleep deprivation, torture and starvation were just some of the atrocities faced by the inmates, who were soon joined by some from the Portuguese mainland accused of opposing the oppressive Salazar regime, notably Socialists and those seeking to create trade unions.

Walking around its desolate empty spaces and reading the accounts of survivors, hearing the echoes of horror in its stark walls, is reminiscent of our visit to Auschwitz some years ago – except this time we are alone, no other visitors are here today. On one plaque, a survivor describes those emerging from “the frying pan”, the solitary confinement cell:

The Camp Of Slow Death sits a few kilometres out of town along the road to the Serra Malagueta; the joyful town of Tarrafal faces the Atlantic as if turning its back on this bleak memorial, commemorating the martyrs and heroes but otherwise consigning the place to history.

A bumpy drive off the same main road is the small village of Ribeira da Prata, home to a magnificent example of volcanic beach where the soft, jet black sand stretches a considerable distance along the shoreline. Black sand and white surf form such a spectacular pairing; our only previous sighting of such a good example was on La Palma in the Canary Islands: the one here on Santiago is not so accessible but is well worth seeking out.

And so we reach our last night in Tarrafal and our final meal in this excellent little town – octopus for one, wahoo for the other, with just a drop or two of the sumptuous red wine from a neighbouring island. Almost inevitably we bump into Alejo and Gabriella once more and indulge in another round of goodbyes.

Tarrafal is our kind of place. It’s been a great few days here and we leave with a real affection for this small town filled with friendly, joyful people. Its relative isolation brings a peace and calmness to a town which goes unassumingly about its business – welcoming its visitors with open arms yet keeping the tourist influence decidedly low key. 

Our time here has been brilliant. No stress.

To A Land Called Fire

Having from breakfast time till 4pm to make our way back down the island, we take a leisurely scenic drive down the east coast before turning inland across to Praia, rather than retracing our steps through the mountain ranges. Just before we leave the coast, we take a short break in the very appealing town of Pedra Bodejo where a great looking restaurant on the clifftop makes us wish we needed more than just a fruit juice.

And so by mid afternoon we’re back in Praia, car returned to the rental company, ready for the earliest morning start of the whole trip for the dawn ferry to our next island, Fogo. It’s still dark as we mingle with the other passengers ahead of what is a four-hour crossing, a journey which is uneventful apart from the method of loading baggage on to the boat. All baggage is loaded on to the back of an aged and creaking truck – which is then driven on to the ferry and comes with us on board all the way to destination, where it is driven out on to the quay ready for the guys to take it all off again. There is surely a better way!

Before departure, the sides of the truck won’t lock, and we are treated to the hilarious sight of one of the operatives using a brick to hammer the bolts shut in order to try and close up the truck and keep the luggage mountain in place. Later, at the destination port on Fogo and the truck safely on the quayside, boat staff climb right to the top of the luggage pile and begin to unload the whole cargo bag by bag, balanced somewhat precariously on top of the bag mountain, not helped by our fellow passengers clamouring around just inches from the rear of the truck even if their bag isn’t close to being visible yet. We just stand back and laugh at the whole daft scenario.

Finally reunited with our backpacks we head towards the gate where dozens of taxi drivers are touting for business in that familiar frenetic scene which takes place at ferry ports across the world. To my amazement, every one of them is looking at me and shouting “Taxi for Philip! Taxi for Philip!”. Just as my head is about to run away with my new found fame, it dawns on me that the main town here is called Sao Felipe….and it all falls mundanely and disappointingly into place. Ah well, maybe my fifteen minutes of fame will come another day.

Our time on Fogo will be limited to a little over 48 hours, comprising 2 nights, 1 full day and two half days. We had really wanted to stay longer, but a combination of sold out flights and sparse ferry schedules meant we had to rethink and cut our time here, so it’s necessary to fill that short time as gainfully as we can.

So Sunday morning it’s off straight after breakfast in a tour company minibus to take in more of the island and its unmissable highlight: the volcano. Fogo is basically one soaring conical island: craters and smaller calderas dot the mountainside but the entire island is dominated by the giant, commanding volcanic peak towards its northern edge, Pico do Fogo. This is no dormant or extinct monster, either: Fogo is an island which lives in fear of the next eruption every time a new earth tremor rumbles underfoot.

Fogo, which literally translates as “fire”, last witnessed a major eruption just nine years ago in 2014, before that in 1951 and again in 1995. Climbing the steep roads in the minibus, the landscape changes noticeably as the earth and the rock become darker and darker until eventually we’re in the midst of the lava field. Acres and acres of jet black lava rock form strange other worldly shapes stretching in every direction – it’s an eerie moonscape scene completely devoid of colour except where locals have planted vines or the odd poinsettia.

Many of these misshapen black devils lie precisely where they landed in 2014 – lava bombs measuring 4 metres across were hurled up to 500 metres from the erupting vent. The vast area destroyed and devastated by the lava flow has to be seen to be believed – what a terrifying sight the eruptions must have been at their height.

The top of Pico do Fogo is 2,829 metres above sea level, yet Fogo is just a small, almost circular island; the volcano is utterly dominant. Being what is known as a stratovolcano, Fogo is the perfect conical shape, the classic shape which we would all draw if picturing a volcano. It’s a mighty sight. The lava flow from the 2014 eruption poured directly through two villages, destroying nearly all of the dwellings in both Portela and Bangaeira, though with the warnings heeded there were thankfully no fatalities.

Portela though was virtually wiped out and the only road to both villages was submerged beneath the lava flow – it is still possible to see the roofs of houses now at the new ground level, surrounded by the blackness of the surreal landscape. The people of the village were re-housed closer to Sao Felipe, but as so often happens, are now migrating back to the home base and are rebuilding the village on top of, and amongst, the bleak black lava flow. 

Our guide (we heard his name as Albino, not sure if that’s correct), tells us that locals believe that they are safe because the lava flow will not follow the same path twice. Whilst there may be some logic in that – after all, the lava field is by definition now raised ground and therefore not the lowest flow route –  I’m not sure we’d be so confident if choosing the site for our new home. Living at the foot of an active, dangerous volcano is a precarious existence.

Older lava flows have now turned to fertile ash and soil in which coffee plantations and vineyards thrive – indeed the Fogo wines are very good, particularly the reds. These wines fall into two categories: Cha, from a vineyard co-operative within the caldera, and Manecom, local wines produced in small quantities by independent growers. 

Back down near sea level, Sao Felipe is a quaint little town not at all similar to Tarrafal on Santiago, still laid back but a little more genteel, maybe even a little more polished. Sitting on the top of cliffs above the black sands of its deserted beach, the town boasts a collection of leafy squares and a whole host of steeply inclined lanes lined with colourful low rise houses, many of which are adorned with beautifully crafted balconies and balustrades. 

We arrived on a Saturday, our host telling us straight away that, apart from the restaurants, everything shuts down from 4pm Saturday until Monday morning. It’s true: we enjoy a very tranquil couple of evenings here with good food, good wine and peaceful surroundings.

Monday comes around and, with a 4-hour indoor-only ferry crossing to come, one which has a reputation for difficult crossings, we are not best pleased to see a much rougher, white topped Atlantic rolling below. By coincidence we catch sight of our ferry on its way up the line several hours before it returns to take us back to Praia. It’s being thrown around as if it’s made of cork.

It’s with a little bit of nervousness that we board the ferry. This might just be something of an ordeal.

From The Land Of Fire To The Waters Of Hell

Our last post left us at the point of boarding the ferry from Sao Felipe on Fogo for a 4-hour crossing back to Praia, our enthusiasm a little dampened by the sight of a moody Atlantic threatening a less than joyful journey. The ferry has no outside deck, we have no choice but to take our seats indoors.

“I don’t like that boat”, our host had said as we were checking out of our room, “on days like today it’s a horrible journey and people can get sick”.

If that isn’t enough, the girl at one of the ticket checks at the port gives a disturbing little chuckle as she says “bon voyage”. This is already lacking in the feelgood factor department.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepares us for the hell that the next four hours becomes. By the time we’re thirty minutes into the journey, the island ferry has turned into the Vomit Comet, with multiple passengers falling ill with only an eighth of the crossing complete. The next few hours are terrible; the boat is filled with the sound of people vomiting into bags and the sight of staff running with mops and paper towels to clean up where someone missed the bag altogether.

Several passengers are so ill that they retch and retch until they weep in distress, unable to cope any longer. But there is nothing anyone can do, it’s not like they can stop the boat and let the most distressed ones off. The torture goes on. And on. I can see into the staff area from my seat: in the last hour of the nightmare, one staff member slumps on to a table and falls fast asleep, so exhausted is he by all he has had to deal with. The horrible scenes fill the whole journey and even as we dock at Praia there is barely a let up in the dreadful sounds of seasickness all around us. Remarkably, and with a large piece of good fortune, I don’t once feel ill, even with all that is going on around me, and I am one of very few passengers who make it through to Praia unscathed. Michaela, sadly, is not so lucky.

Mercifully, the wind which has caused the damage must be blowing in the right direction; we dock at Praia almost thirty minutes early. Small mercy maybe, but mercy nonetheless, and we’ll take it. 

It’s by a considerable margin the worst boat journey we’ve ever endured. I think it’ll be a while before we take on four hours of Atlantic voyage again.

Cidade Velha: Where Cape Verde Began

Darkness has long fallen as we reach our next home, Michaela is in desperate need of rest after the ordeal of the ferry crossing from hell and curls up in the foetal position on the bed, a sure sign she needs recovery sleep. Of course, we haven’t eaten since breakfast: Michaela won’t be in the mood to face anything – I’m empty but don’t feel I should leave her alone so it’s just a handful of Pringles for my dinner tonight.

While she sleeps I go to catch up on some admin and to research our new place – but the wifi is as dead as a dodo and stubbornly refuses to respond. This combination of no wifi and no food would normally have me spitting feathers, but somehow I can’t feel any angst. In this land of “No Stress” we’ve had more than enough stress for one day. Maybe I’ll rest too.

Our new home is down on the farm, or at least a farm converted into a small guesthouse. We’re just outside the small town of Cidade Velha (literally, “Old City”), which is the very spot where life on Cape Verde began. This was the place where the very first Portuguese settlers landed, soon creating a military base around which within four years a town had grown. Originally naming it Ribeiro Grande, the Portuguese rapidly built a lucrative trading post between Africa and the Americas, once again involving the trading of African slaves as one of its commodities.

And so it was from this point that occupation of the ten islands of Cape Verde began, and from here again that Portuguese royalty amassed huge riches from the brutal reality of the slave trade. News of the riches of Cape Verde spread, attracting explorers, corsairs and pirates to this little corner of the world. As we walk what are today its modest streets, we are walking in the footsteps of history, following the path of the likes of Vasco da Gama, Francis Drake and Jacques Cassart. 

Six hundred years later the population has gravitated to the other islands and to other towns on this island, leaving behind what is, considering its influential place in history, a small understated village with only hints of evidence of its former status. It must surely be one of the most modestly celebrated UNESCO World Heritage sites on the planet. What remains now is a rustic little village where the rolling Atlantic turns jet black pebbles into polished spheres, but where its vital history has almost been lost beneath its backwater character.

Leading away from the village centre is Rua Banana (Banana Street), said in some circles to be the oldest surviving street in all of sub-Saharan Africa. It’s an exceedingly quaint lane, narrow, cobbled and lined with attractive little houses constructed from limestone and featuring thatched straw roofs. These tiny dwellings date from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Rua Banana leads ultimately to the oldest colonial church in the world, the Nossa Senhora da Rosario, built in 1495.

High on the cliff above Cedida Velha stands the Fort Sao Felipe, originally built to repel pirate attacks but more recently largely resurrected through a reconstruction project funded by Spain. Elsewhere, a small number of restaurants sit right at the water’s edge, providing a great place to quaff a Strela beer and watch the white surf pound the black rocks, but otherwise this lovely little village is as unassuming as it gets.

Taking a hike up through the ribeiro (valley) which gave the town its original name, we climb through the oasis-like gorge with mango and papaya trees and coconut and banana palms, away from the village and towards the water source somewhere above, though at this time of year the river bed runs dry. The air is full of dragonflies and giant locust-like insects which skip from plant to plant like hummingbirds. Every footfall seems to disturb half a dozen grasshoppers of various colours and sizes. Kingfishers squawk, doves coo and skinks dart under rocks as our heavy footsteps approach.

Eventually the hike takes us up the eastern escarpment to the very top of the ribeiro, through the village of Calabaceira, silent apart from the snorting sounds from its sizeable pig farm, and back towards the sea through soft, fine red earth which stains shoes and socks with a rusty hue. From here we pass the fort once again and approach Cidade Velha from on high, the ruins of its cathedral and its modest streets laid out below.

As ever somebody is hammering out a repair to a small fishing boat; the repetitive sound echoing up the cliff from the waterfront. Gaggles of uniformed children head towards the waiting bus, girls chatting and boys jostling. The sun disappears behind hazy cloud yet seems to lose none of the strength of its rays which continue to tan our faces. The Atlantic surf rolls and crashes, as it always does and always will, as another laid back Cape Verde afternoon unfolds. Seems like a good time to indulge in some more of those giant succulent prawns which are always available here; oh, I don’t mind if I do….in fact how about a couple of those foaming Strela beers, too. Thank you!

All visitors to Cape Verde are warned about the regular power outages, but it’s only on our last morning in Cidade Velha that we experience our first one, so with nothing else to do we take one last stroll around the village and are surprised to see a large group of tourists wandering around, cameras in hand. It seems a cruise ship has berthed in Praia and these guys are on their prescribed visit to this historic little town. Until now we hadn’t even realised it was on such lists, so understated and unassuming is its character.

It’s time to leave this island and return to where we started, the delightful fishing village of Sal Rei on the island of Boa Vista where we will spend the last few days before returning to the UK. Thankfully this island hop is with Bestfly and not by boat, there’s no way we’re ready to go through anything like that again.

Settling back into Sal Rei is like a mini homecoming – we’re not only welcomed back by our host Sylvia but recognised by shopkeepers and the girl at the bar on the quayside who beam their biggest smiles when they catch sight of us. When we were here a couple of weeks ago, twilight became our favourite time of day, and now on our return to our little fisherman’s cottage we remember just why – the orange ball of the sun drops below the horizon, fishing boats become dark silhouettes against the silver water and even the dainty glow of the streetlights has an element of romance. It’s impossible to not feel chilled here.

Sal Rei has the potential to enter our top ten list of favourite places.

Return To Boa Vista: Playing Crusoe, Eating Tuna And Exploring The Island

And so we’re back in the little fisherman’s cottage in Sal Rei, back where our Cape Verde time began, to conclude not only this trip but also our travel adventures for 2023. Boa Vista is the desert of Cape Verde, an island of sand dunes and no natural water supply, so different from the sister islands which have their verdant valleys, green mountains and plentiful supply of fresh fruit. An island where it hardly ever rains and where digging out the sand drifts is a constant challenge.

Sal Rei is a great little village, rustic and just a little rough, home to those locals still dependent on fishing for a living and tucked invisibly away from the resort hotels which are apparently isolated somewhere along the coast.

“I want to go over there”, says Michaela, eyeing the uninhabited islet which sits just off Sal Rei, “it looks interesting”. Well, we can see what looks like a deserted beach, something which resembles the remains of a castle, and a lighthouse. So, always needing to find ways to please the lady, I offer one of the fishermen 20 euros to take us over and return to fetch us home some three hours later. By the way his eyes light up, that’s obviously a better deal than spending his Saturday chasing tuna and wahoo. In fact he’s so pleased that he doesn’t leave the islet at all but instead spends the three hours snoozing in the bottom of his boat and occasionally casting a half-hearted line into the water.

The small islet is a dry, scrub-dune chunk of land with, as we suspected, pretty much nothing else on it apart from lizards, and a cat. Yes, a cat, though how exactly Tom came to be the island’s only domesticated inhabitant is a mystery we’ll never resolve. The castle, it turns out, was a fort, built by the Lisbon-appointed Mayor of Cape Verde to protect something which was of such great value to the fatherland that the town is named after it; Sal Rei translates as “royal salt”. The state, and the mayor, needed to keep those pesky thieving pirate hands off their precious commodity which was in such abundance here, and positioned a number of cannons on the island pointing fairly and squarely on to the only route in. Maybe the cat is the incumbent Mayor and knows how to handle a cannon or two. Who knows.

At times we are the only people on the beach, then another fisherman with another 20-euro opportunity might drop off a handful of other souls. After an hour or so there’s another brief interruption as what is clearly some kind of guided excursion arrives, probably, we think, from one of the resort hotels. Why do we think this? Because in the midst of this rustic world of traditional fishermen in rickety boats, these guys are in an inflatable dinghy and are, incongruously and amusingly, all wearing matching bright orange life jackets. Ah bless their little souls we think, as they disappear across the water after their allocated twenty minutes on the Robinson Crusoe island.

Talking of incongruous sights, the airline which carries passengers between the islands of Cape Verde, Bestfly, has something to contend with that we’ve never seen before on our travels: cool boxes – or what our American friends would call ice boxes, or coolers. But these aren’t taken as hand luggage, oh no – just about every Cape Verdean who is flying between islands puts a cool box in the hold, having first wrapped copious quantities of duck tape around it in order to secure the lid, and hands it in along with his/her suitcase. What is that all about?? Cool boxes as hold luggage? What? Why? Do they really all contain food?

And speaking of food, we thought we might tire of fish, and of tuna in particular, during this three-week sojourn, but it’s just so delicious, so fresh and juicy, and served in so many different ways, that it’s the meal that just keeps on giving. Never mind tiring of it, we’re going to miss it when we’re gone. But “gone” is what we’re going to be, in just a few days’ time.

Sylvia, our incredibly helpful and proactive host, will be “gone” even sooner than we are. She’s heading out of Cape Verde the day before us – Sylvia is German and is going home to Braunschweig, saying she needs a break from the laid back lethargy out here on the islands. It’s not hard to picture that someone who is used to German efficiency might quickly lose patience with what is after all a very different culture and attitude to life, out here in the islands where everything moves at a much slower pace. She gives us one last helping hand before she goes though, and organises a trip around the island to see what else Boa Vista has to offer.

The trip is a day riding in the back of a pick up truck along with our fellow trippers – a couple from Paris – Sylvia herself, and our driver for the day, who bears a name which sounds like a Formula 1 driver or a Brazilian footballer: Nilson Gomes. We’re soon off, leaving Sal Rei behind and heading first to the former capital Rabil with its quaint old church where children attending Sunday school are drawing pictures of burning candles.

Our day on the truck shows in full glory just what a spectacular island Boa Vista is: we eat tamarind and almond fallen from the trees, marvel at the barren fields of volcanic rock, then wander out on to a natural salt pan where the pink and white crystals rise up to ground level from the earth below. 

We pass through various forms of desert, from the grass-tufted dunes we saw when we first arrived, to scrubland dotted with small spiky shrubs, then a stretch of land where the ground is covered in a bright red creeping plant, until, suddenly and unexpectedly, we may as well be in the depths of the Sahara. Huge rolling dunes beautifully sculpted by prevailing winds, sand so soft that it moves like liquid when disturbed, amazing pure scenes of desert yet with definite boundaries where sand ends and scrub begins. It’s as if the Saharan winds follow one specific path, leaving in their wake a wide but clearly defined swathe of pure desert.

Just when we think that things cannot possibly get better, we reach the coastline, and hit the longest, most alluring, completely deserted beaches we have seen anywhere: mile upon mile of gold-white sand caressed by the blue Atlantic yet with not a soul in sight. It is absolutely an undiscovered paradise – but then, “undiscovered” is not altogether surprising as there are no roads to these beaches, we’ve been in the pick-up on dirt tracks for well over an hour before we make the first of them.

Unbelievably there is another breathtaking treat in store on Sylvia and Nilson’s itinerary. The massive rolling Sahara-like dunes were one thing, the amazing beaches another – and then, just beyond Praia Varandinha, those two things come together, giant, sculpted dunes sweeping in glorious peaks and valleys right to the water’s edge. It’s a fabulous, mesmerising sight: a point where the desert sands meet the rolling sea in a marriage designed in heaven. I’m not sure we’ve seen anything quite like this before. 

Nilson Gomes knows his island well: he stops where we can see huge turtles feeding in the waters below the cliffs, and a place where a sea eagle has made its nest. It’s been an amazing, spectacular few hours. We end the day on Sylvia’s rooftop terrace, sipping beer and watching the orange glows of the sunset behind the islet we’d visited on Saturday, chatting about our wonderful world and, ultimately, wishing each other a safe journey home.

We still have one day left to soak up Sal Rei’s sunshine and be absorbed by its character and daily life. Although our time is not quite complete, today has been a fitting finale to our three weeks on these appealing, disparate islands. Three islands, each one so different from the others.

The tiny waitress at Te Manche flashes her sweetest smile as we ponder the menu. I look up at Michaela.

I think I’m going to have the grilled tuna.

Concluding Cape Verde

We’re so pleased that we’ve taken the option to walk to the taxi rank rather than arrange a pick up. Carrying our backpacks makes it obvious we’re leaving town, and as we make our way down Avenida Pescadora the walk becomes a succession of farewells which almost makes us feel like we’re leaving behind a lifetime’s friendships.

“I take this”, says one of the crew who is always pushing out or hauling in the fishing boats, as he takes the garbage bag off our hands and carries it to the street bin. Next there’s the guy at the craft shop on the corner, then Mustafa the artist, and the girl from the coffee shop, all bidding us goodbye with beaming smiles, fist pumps or waves, and shouts along the lines of “see you next time”. It’s a rewarding sensation when you’ve settled in so well that leaving a place goes this way.

The big guy who sits by the taxi rank – we never did work out whether he’s part of the team or just sits and chats with drivers – spots us ambling along and despatches one of the blue-and-yellow taxis to come and meet us and save us walking the last fifty yards or so.

And so with a flight to, and a one hour connection in, Lisbon, our first Cape Verde adventure is over meaning that we have now completed all of our travel adventures for 2023. It may well be our “first” rather than “only” Cape Verde trip too, given that we only visited three of the ten main islands and those three were so very different from each other: a bone dry desert with spectacular dunes and unbelievable beaches; a fertile island of fruit trees and lush green mountains; and a small, lava-strewn island dominated by a giant active volcano.

So based on those three islands, here are some pieces of guidance and advice for those considering a visit.

MONEY. The currency is Cape Verdean escudos but nearly everywhere accepts euros. But beware… the flat, never changing rate used by shops and restaurants is 100 escudos to 1 euro, which is NOT favourable. Cards are widely accepted in restaurants, but most places add a 3% surcharge for using “international” cards, which includes Visa, so generally speaking and depending on who you bank with, drawing escudos from ATMs and paying restaurants in cash is probably your best option. ATMs are readily available in all towns of any size.

FOOD. Fresh fish and seafood dominates and is almost always amazingly good. Most are accompanied by chips (fries) AND rice, so they do pack the carbs a bit – if you ask for vegetables (they always say “legumes”) they will more often than not be flavoured with cumin, which is fine by us. Eating out is not expensive by any means – two very decent fresh fish dinners plus a couple of carafes of house red will usually total less than £10 per head, unless of course you choose the upmarket places which will cost around three times that sum. Don’t be afraid to spurn these and eat where the locals eat – the quality of fresh fish is very high even where it’s cheap.

DRINK – Wine is mostly either local from the volcanic slopes of Fogo or imported from Portugal. The local wine is not expensive. Bottled wine from Fogo (usually called Cha) is decent quality; house red bought by the carafe is more pot luck in terms of quality, which means that occasionally you can get really lucky with a great red at knock down prices. Beer is also either local (Strela) or Portuguese (Super Bock), both standard lagers, and Caipirinha is on every menu with a plethora of variations.

BOA VISTA – We loved the village of Sal Rei, still an unassuming fishing village full of interest and very modest. BUT…how long it’ll stay that way is debatable. New buildings are springing up in town and creeping ever closer to the fishermen’s quarter, and Sal Rei is becoming increasingly popular with Italian and German visitors. It may well change character quickly.

RESORT COMPLEXES – We stayed away from these, of course, and saw little evidence, but all-inclusive places do exist, and the threat of more fills the islanders with dread as the local economy gets little or no financial benefit. On Boa Vista we saw one giant operational complex, one even bigger still under construction, and one half finished site where building had been halted when the developers went bust. There seemed to be a lot of Tui flights in and out though so there must be more complexes somewhere, though at this stage we believe there’s a greater concentration on the island of Sal.

FACILITIES – Power outages are reportedly common, although we only experienced one single one ourselves, so just be mindful if choosing meat over fresh fish – meat stored in freezers which are subject to power outages is not necessarily a good option. However we should say that the very small amount of meat we ate, probably two meals each, was excellent. As ever, don’t expect top quality plumbing and don’t expect a powerful hot shower every time. Talking of water, Boa Vista has none, there is no natural water source and the island relies on desalination and imports. The locals are well versed in saving and not wasting water, so try and do likewise; we leant the shocking fact that holidaymakers on Boa Vista use on average TWENTY TIMES the volume of water that a local does.

PEOPLE & ATMOSPHERE 

There are times when you could be forgiven for thinking you’re in the Caribbean, there is so often that familiar slower pace of life and laissez faire outlook – you will often hear the phrase “no stress” or the word “sodade”. It’s hard not to love the way of life on these islands. Santiago is very African, the city of Praia particularly, yet every now and again on any island you may come across European influences: here an Italian coffee joint, there a group of German expats swigging beer and having fun. Cape Verdeans are extremely friendly and demonstratively welcoming, always ready with a smile and an amicable exchange, never pushy when trying to sell. They also have a natural poise: young men with the bodies of professional athletes and slender girls and ladies with the most elegant of walks are common sights. Conversations between islanders can be loud and very animated, including late at night and early morning – Cape Verdeans are a gregarious race.

SMILE

Smile at a local and even the most preoccupied, straight face will light up with a beautiful smile in return. Shout a “bueno dia” and you will get a rewarding response. You will see the most delightful of smiles on the prettiest of faces, hardly any of whom have the airs and graces of those who know they are beautiful: Cape Verdeans tend to be modest, humble people even when they have the looks of a movie star.

WEATHER

With such a constant climate where little changes from month to month or from day to day, and with only slight changes in average daily temperatures all year, you can’t really go wrong – except on those occasional days when the wind blows more strongly and the Sahara sandstorms turn the clear views into blurred outlines. Then again, that’s the same wind which tempers the heat of the sun and stops any day from becoming too hot. Oh, and at this time of year, the Atlantic is uncharacteristically warm – not the South China Sea exactly but extremely pleasant for swimming.

WRAP UP

The joys of this trip have been the people, the food, the weather….and the fact that each island is so geographically diverse. It’s tempting to say that we’ll be back to see some of the others at some time in the future: we heard many good things about some of the northern islands. We’ll see.