Autor: susanne

After a day at the hotel my adventurous spirit takes over again. I want to pay a visit to the nearby concentration camp. It was meant for political prisoners and only closed in the 1970ties! It’s called „the camp of slow death“. 32 of the detainees didn’t make it.

I want to walk there to be a bit sporty. The receptionist at the hotel discourages me, though, to walk along the shore, as it is only “dust” as she puts it. So, I wander through the seemingly endless town of building sites. At one point, I see people living in makeshift huts and I do not feel fine walking there, so I rejoin the main street. What a contrast! Neatly tarmacked, even a nice cycle-lane.

Once again there’s the problem of change. I only have a 1000 Escudos (10 Euros) bill, the entry fee is 200 Escudos and I cannot be given change. In the end, I give pretty all my coins (which is less than 200 Escudos) and am let in.

The place’s sight is oppressive as probably any sight of a detention or concentration camp. Campo da morte lenta (slow death camp) was opened in the late 1930 to host Portuguese anti-fascists when António de Oliveira Salazar was in power and established his so-called Estado Novo, a dictatorially lead state, relying on secret police after the example of the German gestapo. Later, independence fighters from Angola, Cape Verde and Guinea-Bissau were kept here. Portugal was trying to hold down any independency movements in their colonial wars against Mozambique and Angola between 1961 and 1974 . All this came only to an end after the Carnation Revolution (Nelkenrevolution) on 1 May 1974 when democracy was reinstalled in Portugal. This was also when the doors of the concentration camp were finally opened up and all prisoners released.

The main cells where the prisoners were kept, are rather large. Still, one has to imagine a hundred prisoners huddled together and deprived of any privacy here. All in all, there were 340 anti-fascists and 230 anti-colonialists imprisoned here. Far worse were the so called “correction cells”, where prisoners were put when they had misbehaved. The cells are 3m long and 2.5m wide, completely enclosed cement boxes, that became unbearably hot during the day. It was almost completely dark in it and at one end there was the iron door with a few air holes in it. I find scribbles dating from 1950.

Most prisoners died of malnutrition. Food was scarce and bad, particularly the meat was most of the time already rotten. Prisoners found trichinosis in pork. I read that proper meat was often replaced by crow meat – which was found abounded on the premises. Prisoners put bread balls into their nostrils in order not to smell the foul taste of the dish and be able to swallow it at all – to survive.

Numerous illnesses were caused by this malnutrition, beriberi, scurvy, xerophthalmia, anemia, intestinal infections. But prisoners were not given any medication. Even the surgeon of the camp was desperate as he had ordered medication from the mainland Portugal “two years ago”!

After this rather depressive visit to the camp I make my way back to the beach. Just before I reach it, a woman addresses me, whether I’d like to have a coconut. I think a fresh coconut would actually do good to my still upset tommy and agree. I show her the 1000 bill before she opens the nut for me. I drink the coconut water, which is tasty, but not my favourite. I wanted to have the coconut meat rather than the water. But when she opens the nut for me, there is no meat. I feel betrayed, especially as she is making a fuss of not having any change. She tells me to go down to the bar at the beach and change – and I tell her that she should do this. So, she addresses by-passers and one of them addresses me – in Swiss German. Daniel is here for 7 weeks or so – trying to recover from difficult times as he says – as me. We spend the afternoon at the beach, talking and drinking Caipirinhas and later have dinner together. It’s nice to be talking to him – far travelled and multi-experienced and knowledgeable! No small-talk. Almost everyone gathers at Tarrafal beach in the evening. The smoking German-French couple have come as well as other guests from my guesthouse – what else can you do in Tarrafal?

The atmosphere here has something of a Caribbean taste, palm-trees on the beach, blue water, soft crescent of sand. But it also has the feel of pushy “beach-boys”. Yet, we are more or less not pestered by anyone. One old guy asks twice for a cigarette from Daniel, someone wants to sell me I don’t know what just at the moment when I’m changing into my bathing suit and I find it embarrassing.

I’ve got three days left – I want to finish my book and I love having time to think. Yet, I’m slowly looking forward to getting home – not the weather, beware, but my sons, my cats, my friends – the true ones.

Cabo Verde – I did not come with many expectations. I was surprised about some things, but on the whole, I’d say once in a lifetime is enough.

I liked the old colonial atmosphere in Mindelo, the music every night in the bars and restaurants – Morna and Coldera. Here on Santiago the fast, Zeydeco kind of Funana style, two beat, has replaced the nostalgic Morna or the melodious Coldera. I don’t like it.

I was impressed by the high, steep, green mountains on Santo Antão, the Paùl valley and I had a truly good time at Aldeia Panoramico and with Marina! But I found the rugged, black coastline depressing and gruff. I felt lonely in Ponto do Sol, even though it was one of the bigger places on the island and could not imagine how people actually can love staying there.

But also the many unfinished buildings sites in the outskirts of Mindelo or here on Santiago, especially Tarrafal, give the villages a hostile, uninviting look – albeit the wonderful clear water and the gorgeous beaches, both on Maio and here in Tarrafal. The atmosphere last night at sunset was very peaceful – even though there was the odd sniff of dope in the air.

Fish is abundant and fresh, yet the menu is always the same and often they don’t have what’s on the menu. For vegetarians it’s difficult apart from the always-available omelette.

Santo Antão was a very clean island. On São Vicente I did not see much garbage either. Maio is too small, too uninhabited to produce lots of garbage, even though I collected a few plastic bags on the main beach and even in the water. But here, on Santiago, the problem of plastic bags is predominant. It truly gives the place the spell of a third world country.

Friday is my last full day and Daniel has suggested we go for a hike to the lighthouse, north-west of Tarrafal. Several people have warned me not to go there alone, so I’m glad Daniel comes with me. The hike starts right at the beach and the path leads up the mountain range. We wander through a lovely „forest“, see volcanic basalt columns, no robbers! At one place, the path becomes really steep and I’m afraid of slipping on the debris. So I stay behind and wait for Daniel to come back.

When we come back to Tarrafal the fishers have brought in their catch. There is a hammar shark!

Finally I’ve also found Rémy again, and together with his friends from the surfclub (two other young people from Oléron and Mimi, the surfteacher here) we spend a wonderful dinner together. My last night in Cabo Verde … I admit, I feel a bit sorry.

Post scriptum: It was so nice that Daniel came round to join me for my meal before the transfer to Praia. And Remy and Axel also made it for a quick beer. See you soon on Oleron! I tried to sleep while the taxi took me to the airport. Waiting to be finally boarded at 1h20 at night was exhausting. But both of us, Chloé, who was on the same flight and me had a row of three seats for ourselves and were able to sleep a good bit. We had to say goodbye in Lisbon. You are all very kind, knowledgeable and nice people. I’m so glad I got to know you!

My transfer man is waiting at the airport and takes me to the hotel. Check-in is a bit faster than last time – my passport copied a second time. I even get a room with a real window – but the door opposite is the one leading to the terrace and is constantly rattling with the strong winds. Again, I wake up in the middle of the night and this time it’s the air-con machine on the roof just outside my window that’s making a noise. I don’t like this hotel! Well, one more night.

Then I stroll down from the “Plateau” – the city centre area, which is actually located on a tableland, a plateau – down to the African market of Sucupira. It is an African market, all right! I find true wax fabrics as well as African cosmetics, Thiouraye parfume – the one you which is said to be unresistable to men! – even calabash and fire stoves – and a whole load of European second-hand clothes – heap after heap!

I’ve seen this before – that’s where it goes, our “charity” second-hand stuff, sold to third world countries. The sellers keep the “stuff” in huge metal barrels. Some display it disorderly in heaps, others have the “stuff” sorted, short trousers, long trousers, shirts, skirts, children’s clothes, bras, underwear… the vendors have constructed a roof of sun-sails but with the strong winds it comes down and you actually have to bend down to walk under it. It’s impressive.

Unlike in other African countries I walk around the market almost unaddressed and unmolested and also the Thiouraye seller does not exceed the normal price. I start chatting with him. He’s a Peul from Guinea Conakry: “We don’t have time to bargain here as over there,” he says, meaning Western Africa. Yes, Cabo Verde is Africa light! Still, here, admidst all these tailors and colourfully dressed market women I feel very much “at home”.

I go back to have dinner at Kaza Katchupa where I quite liked it last time. The caprese salad with the cheese from Fogo is really nice. I didn’t want to have a copious meal – but Caipi is a must!

My last day in Praia is a Sunday. The African market is going on also on Sunday – the rest of the city is deserted. I take an aluguer to the old city of Cidade Velha – or rather the remains of it.

This place, formerly Ribeira Grande, is where the history of Cape Verde began. In 1497 Vasco de Gamma paid the place a visit, who discovered later India on the same journey. At that time Ribeira Grande had some 1’500 people living there and became a ‚cidade‘ by 1572. There were several churches and the Portuguese ships that called on their journey to India and Brazil, were watched over by a fort. Even though it had to withstand several attacks Ribeira Grande continued to grow. In 1693, when the huge cathedral was completed, it had a population of about 2000, many of them slaves, who were working in the plantations up the valley.

But after the French raid in 1712 life moved to Praia and Ribeira Grande became Cidade Velha, the ‚old town‘ a touristy village with a few famous ruins. Still, it was the first European city in the tropics and has become UNESCO World Heritage in 2009. The pillory in the centre of the place reminds one of the history of slavery and Jesuit history. The Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Rosario is actually the earliest documented church in the tropics.

I walk up the steep stairs to the reminiscences of the fort. I’m a bit worried, first, about the steepness of the hill, but soon realise that I’ve improved, and it takes me only about 10 minutes to get there – even though I’ve succeeded to make it again at midday! The view is spectacular and the wind strong. Then, I stroll through the ruins of the once so grand cathedral, down along to the black sand beach and over to Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Rosario. In Banana Street one gets a feel of what life must have been back then. A few women are advertising their African souvenirs and goods. I’ve seen most of it and am not really interested but buy two small mangoes. Then I finish Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart” in a nearby café – how appropriate! – before an aluguer takes me back to the capital.

It’s really quiet here on a Sunday afternoon. Even the commotion at the African market has ceased to sleepiness. I wander to the cliff-edge of the plateau and take a few pictures of the presidential palace, the beach and some builders. Strangely enough they’re even working on a Sunday!

Praia is certainly not my favourite, but I’ve gained another experience and that’s fine. Once again, I sleep badly in my hotel room at Hotel Santa Maria. It’s so nicely located in the middle of the pedestrian street on the Plateau, but the rooms are stuffy with only windows to the inward court or stinky with exhaust air from the kitchen and the ventilation. This time, in my room on the top floor, there are 4 ventilation blocks just outside my window, getting on and off throughout the night and the insistent smell of fried fish mingles with the indefinable smell from the gullies.

Lying awake at night has become rather regular. Suddenly, I hear a plane taking off in the distance. This must be the TAP flight taking off at one o’clock every early morning and on Sunday morning I will be on that flight. So, it’s only one hour after midnight I think, before I regain a light sleep – only to be woken about an hour later, when guests, probably arriving from that TAP flight, check into their room next door. There’s quite some commotion until finally the stillness of the night takes over again.

I’m glad when I realise it’s already past 7h when I finally wake up. My luggage is packed in the next to no time and I’m already eagerly waiting for my driver before the set time.

We have to cross the whole island of Santiago to get to Tarrafal, my last place of visit on this journey. Once again, the road leads quite a bit up into the mountains. When we cross the mountain ridge near Assomada the outside temperature has fallen to 17 degrees and my driver assures that this is really cold for Cape Verde standards. We’ve already climbed again to about 1000m altitude.

I don’t feel well! It’s probably last night’s pasta. The curvy road doesn’t help. I’m relieved when we spot Tarrafal – it’s bigger than I suspected – and pull up in front of Casa Strela. First, I’m a bit disappointed about its location at the outskirt of town, but I’m ravished by its inside! It’s extremely nicely furnished, not overly, just trying to match the tropic, Creole style, with simple but comfortable bedstead and mattress, simple shelves and there’s even a small folding table in my room.

Breakfast and other meals are served on the roof top terrace. A wonderful place to be, read, work a bit and relax – spend my last days on the Cape Verde islands.

Later in the afternoon I stroll back to what had seemed to me the centre of town. This again, is a strange place. There are some outstanding beautiful houses with large balconies and terraces, but most of them are either not finished or at least not painted. Someone explained to me that people do not have to pay taxes unless they’ve painted their houses – and this is probably the reason why there are so many unpainted and thus seemingly unfinished houses. All of which gives the villages a rather run-down look, as the difference between unfished and neglected is not always distinguishable at first sight.

Many true building sites line the once again cobbled roads. Someone told me, a lot of Cape Verde people living abroad would try to build a house around here, sending money when ever there is a bit saved to go on a little with the project. That’s why many houses are in a perpetual state of creation.

The place reminds me of the outskirts of Agadir, Morocco 20 years ago. There were signs of future streets to be realised, like lampposts. Also, plots could be identified. Yet, the place was still an uninhabited section of land. Today, it has changed. The plots in Agadir have become pricy and almost every single has been built on. Whole quarters have been erected giving the area a completely new look and feel. This will probably be the case with Tarrafal as well in a few year’s time. And Casa Strela, which is already fully booked, will be only one of many nice guesthouses.

There is an inviting palm-tree bordered beach in Tarrafal – yet not one single person bathing or sunbathing. I meet the couple from my guesthouse in hiking-shoes again – and we greet in a kind of embarrassed way, as if we had not intended to see each other as soon again. I walk past the secondary school. Some lads are playing football in the schoolyard. The fence around it is mutiply broken.

In a café I meet a young German maths-teacher – was it Tom? – who has escaped the cold Berlin winter to teach online from here. He’s almost stayed for three months now and is not tired of the place yet. I wonder how? Yet, he admits, without the teaching he would probably have become bored long ago. I have detected this notorious faint touch of a Communist past here on Santiago, probably most similar to Cuba – sharing the sunny Caribbean atmosphere of it.

My tommy is still upset, and I make my way back to the hotel. I will not go out again tonight, but a German-French couple invites me to join their table at dinnertime. She smokes like hell and even though I like to chat with someone I don’t like to be exposed to the smell of cigarettes anymore. She’s not happy as she’s to leave the next day, but she seems not to be a content person anyway.

I feel like staying in this wonderful place and start working as much as I can online. I’m also almost halfway through my latest book – “The Reluctant Fundamentalist” by the Pakistani author Mohsin Hamid. This is also what it was meant to be: Finally having time to read a few books that I could either use in class or at least add to my reading list. And finally, I’ve made it through a few of them!

I’m lying in my cosy bed listening to the surf of the nearby sea. – In the morning there’s the chirping of some African birds joining in. I like it a lot!

Today I want to go to Ribeiro do João and walk back to Vila do Maio. It’s not as hot as yesterday, but I’m not as lucky to catch an aluguer as yesterday. I find one heading to Ribeiro do João, but the driver takes his time doing his commissions in the capital. When he finally drives off, he drives to the hospital where there are two more passengers supposed to wait wanting to get to Ribeiro. We have to wait for another quarter of an hour or so, after I have already waited about 40 minutes in the first place. Then the driver finally gives in as the passengers are not turning up and we drive off, yet, only after he has stopped another time to buy something at the wholesale shop.

From Ribeiro dom João leads a small path down to the coast. This time the coast is rockier than the last time, when flat bushland changed into sandy beaches. Dominique from Casa Evora had told me that some of the coastline looked like Brittany. Well, this reminds me of Brittany. Only the beaches are not white, neither black. Their mixed again. The volcanic black sand merges with the white sand again and forms wonderful patterns.

I have to climb up a few times up the rocks and there isn’t even a path visible on maps.me – but I think I cannot miss my way if I just follow the coastline. I see a turtle shell and ask myself whether it died a natural death. The Cape Verde islands are well known for their turtle population. In spring you see turtles laying eggs and in early autumn the small ones leave their eggs and make it to the sea.

I come to one fishing hamlet where there are a few boats, but they seem not to have seen water for a long time, rather are they surfing the sand dunes.

There is one fisherman, who I pass. He packs up his tackle and walks off in the opposite direction. I also meet a few goats with their young. But then, suddenly, I catch a glimpse of a figure about a kilometer behind me walking in the same direction. After my Mindelo experience I’m all alert at once and speed up. There will be another 2.5km to walk on the beach – of course I always walk close to the waterfront where the sand is rather solid – much less tiring than in the dry soft sand. I try to reassure me that this person might as well be another hiker, as me, or a person from a village that has come to the beach because of one or another reason. Still, I’m worried, even though Martin and Caroline had assured me that it was safe to walk alone on the island. At its southernmost point the beach bends back to the west and after a while I notice that no one is following me anymore. I ease my pace but also notice a sharp pain in my right foot.

I still have to walk the rest of the way – there is no way to find any transport here. So, more slowly but still steadily I make it to the outskirts of Vila do Maio, on the wide and beautiful beach of Ponta Preta. There, on an outcrop, seems to be restaurant – Martin’s (again?). Thirsty and tired I go in. There’s a beautiful terrace overlooking the vast beach. It’s windy, but the wind soothes my sweaty back. I have two Guava drinks (has become my favourite) and a shrimp salad, on top a brownie dessert. The vanilla ice-cream tastes really artificial, and the shrimps are few and dry, but otherwise I like my dish.

I limp the rest of my way back to Casa Evora. This seems to be the better off part of Vila do Maio. Even though I’ve already had a meal I will not miss my caipis at Kaza Tropical!

No hiking the next day! My foot needs rest! On top one of my left foot’s nail bed’s is inflamed, so both feet somehow injured. The weather is not nice, either. It’s pretty fogg. For a moment I believe to be at the shores of lake Zug! Dominique tells me that, if the weather stays like this there will be no flight back to Praia tomorrow, as there is not flight-control system but the pilot as to land by VFR (visual flight rules). And to do this you need at least a visibility of 5 km. With this fog the visibility is reduced to about 2 km. But there will be a ferry on Sunday evening, and if there is no flight there will be no new guests and so I can stay another night. Well, this is Africa. Let’s see – luckily I do not have to catch any connecting flight. So, rather relaxed I spend the day reading, writing this blog. I also call my friend Ruth – and in the afternoon the sun even peeps out.

I wake up in the middle of the night and listen to the regular surf on the beach close-by. Later, it will be interrupted by the cock-crow. There’s no other sound whatsoever. My window is open and in comes the breeze from the sea. In Africa things get reduced to their essence. Often, it’s barely more than survival. Yet, in this reduction lays a strength, an incredible power. Even though I’m only a privileged observer, it has its impact on me. I’m thinking about many things. I’m recovering slowly. The sun is medicine, the simplicity soothing. After a while I fall back into the stillness of the night, listening to the surf …

There was a moon that shone onto the beach when I woke up. So, that means no fog, no clouds and probably my flight will take place. In fact, it’s an magnificant day – I would like to stay! I have a few morning hours to spend, have breakfast, a last swim in the crystal blue water. I find Martin on the beach and we exchange e-mail addresses – you never know when a sailor is needed. Then I pack up and am driven to the airport.

Dominique had told me one hour before take off would do – but at the airport they tell me to hurry up as check-in has almost been closed. So, I’m the second but last to check-in – and I’m not proud of it.

At security control they suspect me of having four! nail-clippers with me (I’ve got one.) They put up a fuss about those supposed four nail-clippers. They’re looking for them and I’ve to take out all my belongings from my handbag. They scan my notebook a second time – but they don’t find any four nail-clippers, and if so?

Afterwards it comes to my mind that I also keep a small magnifying glass in the same pocket as the nail-clipper. Maybe this had the effect of quadrupling the nail-clipper?

We board and once again it is really just a hop over to Praia on the island of Santiago. A flight time of 9 minutes! My luggage – luggage is said to be left behind sometimes – has arrived safely also this time and I’m happy and somehow got used to these island hopper flights. It was Rémy’s remark that these planes are able to fly even without propellers working that reassured me so much. My suspicion was also fostered by the fact that you cannot book these flights in Europe and I asked myself, why.

I’ve got a few hours to spend in Mindelo before I’ve to go to the airport and fly to Santiago, the biggest of the Cap Verde islands. I meet Marina again and we stroll the streets of Mindelo again and also pay a visit to the fish market. Last time, I was completely stressed out with my follower. So this time I have time to look at the wonderful fishes. It’s an African market, local, fresh, lively. Women selling the fish, men descaling the fish with a special tool – an old tin with drilled holes in it. It serves perfectly!

Marina and I go and have a look at the exposition about Césaria Evora in the former presidential palace. It’s a collection of vinyl discs, diary notes, pictures and clothes that have belonged to the grande dame of Morna.

We also go again to the beach in Mindelo. It’s said to be artificial in its whiteness. It looks beautiful, exotic if you just look out onto the sea, but once you see the surroundings, mostly ugly building sites, it does not look so inviting anymore. The wind has freshened and we do not stay long there. I also have to get back to the hotel to get my luggage and go to the airport.

I share the taxi with the couple from Nantes that we met yesterday, Lyn and Christophe, both teachers as well. But when we get to the airport the departure time is shown at 17h35 instead of 15h35. Christophe first thinks this has to be another flight. But I don’t think so – there will not be more than one flight from São Vicente to Santiago a day. And I’m right. The flight is delayed. Someone murmurs because it was not full in Praia and they were waiting for the passengers from Sal to join.

Lyn is quite upset. She seem to be an active person, someone, who cannot sit still for a while. So, she quickly decides to take a taxi and go to the nearby San Pedro beach. They only have little luggage – I always envie people who are able to travel with only light luggage. My bag is rather heavy and I don’t want to carry it around for long, so I stay in the airport using the time to write my blog, as the internet connection is not bad.

After a while check-in opens and I get rid of my heavy bag. After two hours Lyn and Christophe come back – in high spirits. They had Sangria at the beach and met – Marina! It’s funny, after one week on the Cap Verde islands I’m finally sitting with six people in the small airplane to Praia that I’ve met before – the couple from Nantes, a young couple from Belgium we met on the hike in Fontainhas, and Paul and Rémy (the Oléron boys), who are almost last to arrive. But Rémy is probably so used to all this that he knows how things work out. He’s also been informed about the delay.

The flight takes 50 minutes and we arrive safely in Praia. Again, things are well organised and I’m taken to my hotel, after I’ve said goodbye to Paul, Lyn and Christophe. Rémy, I hope, will still be in Tarrafal when I get there next week, waiting for the container with surf material or instructing …

The check in at the hotel is slow and I once again get such an in-court room, meaning you’ve only got a window to a dark courtyard. I’m hungry. I’d like to have something else than burgers. At the hotel the salad niçoise sounds inviting, is on the menu – but not available. This is something that has happened many times to me by now – things are on the menu, once you chose them, they’re not available. A constant disappointment. I decide to try my luck elsewhere. The next restaurant is posh and completely booked out, the Bistro next door only serves fish and meat dishes. Then I find Kaza Katchupa. I chat with a single customer. He’s a Portuguese businessman and helps me understand the menu. Once he has left, Helena sits next to me. She is Italian, also one of this winter refugees here, from Ravenna. Back home a tourist guide, here a … I don’t know. But what I notice is her biting her fingernails. I’m having my spaghetti kreoli (with chorizo, local cheese and herbs) and it’s getting on my nerves. But what makes me think is that for years on end I also bit my nails – and I know see what it must have been like for my company to sit next to me seeing me bite my nails. I’m sorry, I apologise to all of you – it’s horrible. Luckily, I was able to stop this habit years ago and only rarely bite my nails now.

Even though my night is extremely short – I’ve to get up at 4h45, will be picked up by the taxi at 5h30, I hardly sleep in the again – coffin like – room. I spend my night thinking about strange things and also have strange dreams. I’m glad when the alarm goes off at last – and I’m not tired at all. My things are quickly packed up and the taxi is already waiting when I come down. We pick up two other people who also want to fly to Maio today and the taxi brings us to the airport. Check-in is fast and smooth. Then we have to wait, with an empty stomach seemingly endlessly, until we can finally board the plane.

It’s just a 10 minutes’ hop over to Maio – yet, the travel agency suggested that it would be better to go by plane as ferry connections are even less reliable. Well, we’ll see. It’s only 7h20 when we land on Maio. The descent was spectacular, all along the shoreline of Vila do Maio, the main place on Maio. I’ve even taken a pic of my hotel without knowing it.

I’m greeted by the transfer and taken to my hotel, where I really long for breakfast. And it’s a wonderful breakfast, with honey and pancakes. And my room in this old refurbished colonial house is very – very – nice, stylish, too. The best I’ve had so far.

Later I go for a stroll in the village (town?). I’m impressed by the cathedral already built in 1847. I walk about the almost empty streets, chicks passing my way, dogs lying in the shade, smoke from small fire stoves spreading this typical smell of Western Africa – yes, this is it, this is Africa! I instantly feel at home and ponder that Mindelo and Santo Antão would probably more have had the spell of Brazil while this now was Africa.

The fishermen bring in their catch, lay their nets to dry on the beach, their wives selling the fresh fish in big buckets along the staircase up to the main esplanade. It’s a lovely view. It reminds me so much of “my” village in Sénégal.

There is the “famous” Kaza Tropical down at the beach and I go there for a drink. Most guests are elderly Italian tourists, or are they regulars? I find my favourite Guava dink again and sit at the beach for quite some time before I venture into the water. At first it’s cold, but only for a short moment. Then it’s wonderfully refreshing, clear as a crystal, light Caribbean blue. Gorgeous!

I have a shower before I go back to the Kaza Tropical for Happy Hour Caipirinhas! It’s a wonderful evening, tranquil, peaceful. I feel a little lonely, would like to have someone at my side tonight. Maybe one day …

The next day my plan is to take a taxi/aluguer to Calheta and walk back to Vila do Maio. It’s about 14 km, so it should not take me more than 4 hours. I’ve met this Danish mother and her adult son the day before – non-vaccinated Covid refugees – who made it from Calheta to Morro (the village mid-way). So, I think I can do it. I find an aluguer quite quickly, but do not quite understand the driver when I want to pay him and he actually tries to take more from me than he should. But he gives back one of the 200 escudos bills reluctantly once I draw the price with my fingers in the air.

Once again I didn’t make it in time , of course – it’s already midday. I was at the bank this morning and changed some more Euros to Escudos. The rate is much better as when you pay in Euros directly – which is widely accepted on the Cape Verde Islands. Marina had told me that she had had to wait for 1h5 when she first wanted to change money in a bank.

I remember myself when I – for the first time in Sénégal – had to wait hours only to get into the bank, and another one or two inside, to be able to finally change my Swiss Francs into CFA. People where squeezing, and sweating and smelling, and pushing. It was all quite an adventure back then in 1995, but it was probably my worst money-changing experience.

I remember another one in Accra, capital of Ghana. Brigit and I used to keep most of our money in the document-belt we were wearing, only having a few bills at hand for every-day purchases. But when we had changed our money to Cedi – the Ghana currency – we actually had to carry our money in a plastic bag because there were no large bills available and the lady at the counter had given us packages of small bills. I felt like having robbed a bank, even though I was only carrying approximately Fr. 200.-.

In order to be prepared for prolonged waiting sessions I’ve taken my book with me – I’ve finally finished the „Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society“ (a book about the German occupation on the channel island Guernsey), which I liked quite a bit in the end even though the start was a bit tough (it’s all written in letters, you’ve to get used to it). Now, fitting for Africa, I finally read Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart”, a story placed in a traditional Ibo clan village of lower Nigeria, written in 1958, an internationally acknowledged book about the impact the appearance of the white (missionary) men had on African culture and life.

But here the money-changing process does not take long at all. There’s one lady being served and once she has left it takes maybe five minutes to change my Euros into Escudos.

Yet, the money-changing took some time and so once again I arrive only at midday in Calheta. Here, the feel is even more Africa. The houses are all nicely painted in various colours, some of them with patterns. Chicks run around freely – happy chicks. Chicks that you do not have to feel too sorry about if you eat them, as they, at least had a happy life. Some children walk up and down the street, some young lads play table-soccer in the shade of a sun-sail. It’s very quiet.

I find the place, the hostel, where I could have stayed in Calheta. Two places, in fact, either in the tower or the oratory converted into guestrooms. An extremely nice place in an extremely deserted place. My agency was right to place me in Vila do Maio – even the capital is so quiet.

Then I set out for my walk back. I will walk the about six kms to Morro and then decide whether I will go on or take the aluguer back to Vila do Maio. It’s hot. There’s a young man jogging up and down the small beach at Calheta. There’s also a woman with some children bathing. Otherwise the place is deserted.

After my Mindelo experience I hope that the man is not going to follow me. I asked locals if it was safe and they said it was. My hotel knows where I was going, so if  I had not come back at a certain time …

I pick up a sharp edged stone, anyway, and carry it all the way back to Vilo do Maio, just in case. But all is peaceful, the wind pushes me gently from behind, the sea is spectacular here, the beach too. Black volcanic sand mixes with white sand that is blown over with the warm Harmattan wind from the Sahara. The white grains are bigger than the black ones, thus heavier and so the two sands create wonderful patterns.

I’ve put sunscreen on this morning and do it a second time, but after about half-way, I have to subdue. Walking south I’m facing the sun and I literally feel how it’s burning my face. I’ve wrapped my cotton shawl (always take a cotton shawl with you and wrap it around your head like the African women do.) I know that it serves much better as heat protection than a hat, as it’s thick and there’s kind of a micro-climate evolving under the thick fabric. That’s what it is all about wearing a turban. But the heat in my face gets unbearable. So I take of my blouse and wrap it around my face – I now truly look like a Tuareg! But the trick works.

Later in the afternoon clouds cover the blazing sun, the wind gets stronger. It takes me a bit more than three hours to walk back to Vilo do Maio. At Kaza Tropical I gulp down a Guava drink and cool my heated body in the sea.

There’s already an older and a younger man swimming. The older encourages me in English to get in, it would only be cold the first moment. I detect a Swiss accent and speak back in Swiss German. Surprised he answers with a clearly distinguishable Basel accent.

He introduces himself as Martin. And he and his wife Caroline, a lady from New Zealand, have run the Kaza Tropical now for eleven years. They literally stranded here on a sailing trip and the yellow sailing boat anchoring in the bay is theirs. What a surprise!

I go quickly back to my hotel to have a shower before I have dinner at Kaza Tropical. Martin and Caroline, “nice to meet you”, invite me to their table and talking to them I find a couple at my age who’ve lived a rather exotic life so far. Their two boys grew up here, but they also lived some time in France. Martin has worked as a social worker on ships for ex-junkies and other mentally fragile people – and there he also met someone I know from Zug – Erwin, also a social worker. My friend Brigit travelled with his partner and daughter to Africa, to my, our village in Sénégal even a few times. Johanna and her daughter loved it as much as Brigit and her daughter and I do. The world is small – what coincidence!

When I want to pay for my Caipirinhas the next morning Fabri, the owner of Aldeia Panoramico, tells me that I was booked for one more day! I’ve mixed it up again!

So, instead of leaving for Ponto do Sol, Marina and me walk into the valley of Pombas, to the very far back, as there is a waterfall. It was that pregnant young lady that had also run up and past us when hiking the day before, that had told us about the beauty of this place. We walk in the riverbed.

There are pebbles, later stones and rock. Most of the time the path is well visible, sometimes we get lost. Further up, and we had rightly assumed so, the path gets steep onto the terraced fields of some farmer. We have become cautious about what to believe from the locals. They are mountain goats and some of the hikers here, too. But it IS beautiful up here! Going down is easier, we find the path better and make it in about 70 minutes. So, Elio was actually quite right with 80 minutes one way. It took us three hours up and back – a fine walk with sore muscles.

With Eloi we also have a look at the “biggest” rum distillery in the Paul valley. It’s actually pretty small, but we learn that the government has imposed new regulations and they have to use Inox barrels now instead of the old wooden barrels. The effect is devastating as many small distilleries cannot afford the new, expensive material and had to close.

Elio deposits Marina at her hotel in Ponto do Sol and the first impression I get from that place is one of forlornness. It reminds me of Moroccan places, somewhere up in the Atlas, where women hide in their houses and there is almost no one seen on the street. It’s windy, pretty windy! And hazy. Elio drives me back to my hotel – as I have to luckily stay there another night! – back along the black rocked coast into the green valley of Paùl.

There is a huge table set for regulars, the Oléron boys, Tom, some French women and an Irish guy, Harry, and his friend Laura – and me! I’ve become part of the “family” and am very happy. We had a jolly good night with lots of “grogue” and “ponch”, that’s rum with flavour – liquor, we had Coconut Ponche, soft and fresh and thick and milky and sweet and … too much!

The next morning I’m met by Elio again and this time I leave for good. I’m sorry to leave Aldeia Panoramica. I’ve met interesting people, more and faster as I had expected and with Marina I think I’ve actually found a new friend. In Ribeira Grande we meet her and together we drive up the old (and first) cobbled road the Portuguese built up to the Cova Crater again, but this time from the other side.

Unfortunately, there are clouds hanging over the valley, there is this harmattan wind haze that’s lingering everywhere and the view are spoiled. It’s not possible to capture the immensity of the view and the steepness of the slopes going down on each side of the road, for example at Delgadim

The atmosphere in Ponto do Sol has not changed – forlorn. There are no people around. We want to have a drink in the famous Café Veleiro where you can see on the small terrace overlooking the surf of the sea and, if lucky, spot humpback whales – so I was told. They have a varied menu – yet, there’s almost nothing available, even for the drink. No Caipirinha, no ponch Coco, and the Pina Colada is convenient from a bottle – it tastes as if. Rather a disappointment.

What contrast to the small restaurant Catera, run by a French woman from Corsica. The food is delicious! The music too!

It’s from Ponto do Sol to Cruzinha, this famous walk along the steep, black coast. I’m a bit worried about my condition when we set off. We actually want to pass the famous village of Fontainhas set on a high cliff ridge overlooking the sea. From there we want to get up to the viewpoint and when we have reached it and it is not midday yet, we go on, the steep serpentines of the way of the cross down to the hamlet of Corvo. Here we meet the two French ladies of Aldeia Panoramica, who – once again – are more running than walking up the hill. They made it from Cruzinhas to here in less than two hours. So that means minimum 3 hours for us. They mention that they hadn’t seen much of traffic in Cruzinhas. We walk on and come to the small village of Formiguinhas. Here we find a place to eat. The guide of the French hiking groups warns us again that it would be difficult to find an aluguer going back to Ponto do Sol from Cruzinhas, especially as it was getting late.

So, not quite light-hearted we get convinced that it is better to turn round and walk back to Fontainhas – this time UP the steep way of the cross – than heading on to Cruzinhas, not knowing whether we would get transport back to Ponto do Sol.

We make it! Almost 700 metres altitude down and UP on that day. I feel that I’ve got fitter compared to my first hike down into the Paùl valley from the Cova Crater. It’s my head that is throbbing from the heat, but there’s a nice breeze, soothing. We are happy to go and have dinner again in the Caleta restaurant – and this time its three Caipirinhas.

I get on very well with Marina. She tells me about her home town in France, a region I faintly know but have never visited yet. It’s far from a touristy place but with nice touristy attractions around and close to the wonderful town of Nantes, which I actually adore a lot.

Marina is a very considerate person, knowledgeable, a bit younger than me but no less life-experienced! She’s travelled to many exotic places and earns my respect for things she’s done in her life. Talking to her in my still fragile mental condition means a lot to me. She’s actually able to pin down new objectives for/with me and I’m truly thankful for this. I finally need to forget the past!

I’ve changed plans. I want to stay with Marina one more evening and I don’t actually know what I’ve lost in Ponto do Sol. Tomorrow will be Sunday, so probably even more deserted than it is today on a “lively” Saturday night. I decide I will leave a night earlier and go with her on the late afternoon ferry over to Mindelo.

The alugar takes us to Porto Nova, cheap and reliable. These things work out well here on the Cape Verde Islands. Also the ferry is on time most of the time, but today it’s late. I’ve given my ticket to the lady in charge at the ticket box, when Marina bought hers. She’s just scribbled something onto it – but I suppose it will be fine.

But when we want to board the ferry – my suitcase is already on the luggage trolley – they don’t want to let me in. They’re mumbling something about special security controls, that it would not be save, that I had to wait outside the ferry. I say, it’s not my fault that I did not get a “new” ticket and the guy finally lets off me.

Interestingly enough, once the ferry has taken off, he finds me and apologies. He explains that there was kind of a special procedure today and that everybody had been nervous and that they actually had not intended to leave anyone behind.

When I get to the hotel in Mindelo there’s another disappointment. The hotel is overbooked and I have to stay again in the Residencial Mindelo – where I stayed a week ago. Only this time I get one of the worst rooms – one without windows. But for one night it’ll do and I get a Caipirinha offered and the breakfast will be much better more of my taste (good Italian coffee) than the one in Residencial Mindelo.

Marina comes by and we have a great dinner with live music and a good chat with a couple – again from Nantes (somehow my life is going to revolve around this area of France, finally). They will be on the flight to Praia the next day as well, so I already know four other people on that flight!

This time the taxi is on time – and takes me down to the harbour pier. There are already a lot of people waiting to be boarded onto the ferry over to Santo Antão. Things work out extremely organised – so unlike Africa. I’m surprised as the atmosphere reminds me of many a trip that my friend Brigit and me have made through Western Africa. At 6h58, two minutes prior to departure time, the ferry puts out to sea. The sun is rising over the island of São Vicente when we are already halfway over to Santo Antão. It’s a beautiful sight, peaceful, when we’re leaving the natural harbour crater.

My driver Eloi is waiting for me this time, all right, on top of the stairs when I arrive in Porto Novo on Santo Antão. We drive up the steep old road to a small village called Lombo de Figuera and a bit further. On the way there, Eloi tells me that all the forest has been afforested by the Portuguese. Also, the roads have been issued by the Portuguese. All of them are cobbled roads with a rim-like wall at their side. This used to be the main road to the other side of the island before the road along the coast was built in the 1970ties – only in the 1970ties. This side of the island is rather dry and empty, but over there it will be lush and plentiful, he promises, even though it has not rained for four years.

I will later tell him to turn of the engine of his vehicle each time he stops – as he does not – to contribute his bit to save the climate. He’s not convinced of my idea. He thinks the engine would take harm and starting a diesel vehicle would use more petrol than leaving it going. I tell him that a cold engine might indeed suffer from too many starts, but not a warm one. I ask him: “Do you want it to rain again here?” – “Yes.” – “So, turn the engine off each time you stop your vehicle,” I say. „It’s your small contribution to save this planet. And if everyone did, we had a much bigger effect even.“ He gets silent for a moment, then he says: “From now on I will turn the engine off.”

We get to the rim of the huge mountain range and there is the Paùl Valley before me. We’ve climbed to 1300 meters and I look down into this green world of small terraced vegetable gardens. There are a few colourful houses scattered around, the village of Paùl.

I get out of the car and start my hike within alpine looking pine trees. I walk around the Cova Crater. There’s cattle and the farming up here in the crater is not really green and lush. It’s already getting hot, almost 10h00. Half an hour later I’m standing at the opposite rim of the crater, looking down into the Paùl valley again. Only days later I will be aware how lucky I was because the view is clear and bright, which cannot be taken for granted at this time of the year.

I’m sitting up there, enjoying the view, when the French family from this morning ferry turns up. I had offered to take a family picture of the couple and the three girls. There is also „mami“ and „papi“, and „papi“ starts talking to me. As so often it is the fact that speak French pretty well that issues the topic. But we quickly move to other topics and I find out that he and his wife have actually sailed from Arzal in Brittany down here. They have brought water filters to Sénégal, being part of the association “Voile sans frontières” and helped to build a school garden in the Sine-Saloum region in Sénégal. Now they have come here to see their son and grandchildren (the family I took the picture of in the morning) before they will sail on, for another year or two … what interesting people. Unfortunately, they have missed the right path and turn back, so our conversation is abruptly interrupted.

I turn to my way down into the Paùl valley. It is a perfect cobbled path, about 1.5 meters wide, but incredibly steep it leads the almost vertical wall down in serpentines. Oh, the calves! I take my time, stop to take pictures again and again, buy locally grown coffee from a woman, taste “grogue” and „ponche“ from another one – and actually buy maracuja (passionfruit) and coco „ponche“.

I’m hot with the tapping sun when I arrive at the hostel. At first, I’m a bit disappointed of the place. The main building, painted in yellow and blue, is a concrete building with huge windows, allowing views to all sides “Aldeia Panoramica”. There is a sparse feel about it, but I like the colorful African fabric cushions. I’m led down to the pool area. Around it are six smaller buildings with two rooms each. They are simply furnished, but clean and somehow meet the place. As I’m so hot from the hike I think I’ll dip in the pool right away. It’s when I’m leaving my room that I see my neighbours, two guys in their early 3oties maybe – and one of the is wearing a shirt “Oléron Surf Club”. I, of course, address him at once asking about that Oléron Surf Club. Rémy turns out to be administrative responsible. Paul, his friend, is a hiking addict, living near Marseille, but also lived for a long time on Oléron. What surprise! And they are pretty baffled as well when I tell them I’ve got a bungalow on the island.

That’s when THEY go off to go up to the Cova Crater that afternoon. Paul is training for some trailing competition he has gone in for. I have a dip in the pool – and have just finished changing when Paul is back. He made it in 1h40 – up and down! 15 minutes later or so, also Rémy is back down. They’ve literally run down the steep path that I had walked in about 90 minutes (down – one way!).

I’ve dinner with the two Oléron boys and Tom joins us later. Tom is from Boston and is spending his third winter here on Santo Antão. Rémy, who’s a regular as well, and Tom know each other. Tom is retired, he’s got time and money isn’t an issue. He’s got a loving wife, but she doesn’t like travelling. That’s why Tom feels lonely sometimes. And he hikes, for me he hikes like hell. “It keeps me young,” he tell me. It does! I’m in awe, really. These guys just run up and down these steep valleys and mountains. A 12km uphill hike is a morning stroll.

I myself am in two minds about going for another hike the next day. I’ve seen on the map that the hike proposed has a very steep climb up at some stage and – being giddy – I’m a bit afraid. In the end I take the chance and walk off.

Just at the junction where the path leads off into the world of hundreds of tiny vegetable and fruit fields, terraced one above the other, I meet Marina. Marina is French and thinks she has been deposited in the wrong place by the alugar, the collective taxi. But actually she’s in the right place – and she wants to do the same hike. So, this encourages me and we set off, the two of us. We walk and talk and soon realize that we are fine together. Similar values, some similar interests, she has a better condition than me, but not too much, so we take it easy, take pictures, rest, get lost, find our way and suddenly we are below “’L’antenne”.

Now the path leads out into very steep grassland, up to the crest which it follows up steep steps to the antenna. Like a beehive there are some houses clustered on this crest, the utmost width being maybe 10 meters. On both side there’s the vertical abyss. Here lives Sandra and she has fresh water and juices, which we gulp down. How stupid to make this ascend at midday! The couple from Britain are also gasping, especially she. „We go for a morning stroll,“ had he said, no water, no escudos, not walking stick.

After some time cooling down in the shade we set off again, down the Figueiral de Paùl valley. Really beautiful, but steep again, long again. My untrained legs get loose. I’m so glad when we reach Boca de Figueiral and take an alugar back up.

I’ve a new friend. Tomorrow, I’ll meet Marina again and she’ll join me on my trip to Cobra and then to Ponto do Sol.

It was on 1st February 2013 when we landed – at some time in the late afternoon – on Sal, one of the Cap Verde Islands. I remember it so well, as it was the day after Brigit’s birthday – a birthday night we had spent in the Radisson Blue Hotel at Zurich Airport. The hotel staff had brought a nice little cake to Brigit’s room. It had all been extremely special.

We were on our trip to Abéné in the Casamance region of Sénégal. We had booked a Condor flight from Frankfurt, but our flight from Zurich to Frankfurt left Zurich at 7h00. In order to be able to be there on time, we had wanted to spend the night in the Airport Transit Hotel Rooms, which you can book, but you’ve to be checked in, because you are literally sleeping within the transit zone. After getting up you only have to walk to your gate and board your flight. In 2013, evening check-in was still provided by many airlines.

But then Brigit, who had booked the rooms for us, got a call from Canada Air. A Canada Air plane had returned to Zurich and there were passengers without visa to Switzerland who had to stay overnight in Zurich. So, they asked us to leave our cheap transit rooms to these passengers and payed for the five star Radisson Blue nearby, instead. That’s how we had come to stay in that hotel.

It had been a horrible night – as I had hallucinations deriving from the anti-malaria prophylaxis medication Lariam. But at that time, I did not know it yet. I was just lying in my bed all night having the worst, unspeakable fears. All the rooms’ large window panes were facing down into the Radisson Hotel dining court. There were walls of wine bottles and the waiters and waitresses had to literally climb up to get one of the more special wines.

All this glass around me reminded me of the World Trade Center that had been subject to terrorism not even two years before. I suddenly needed to find the fire escape stairs, but that did not help much. While my little boys, eight and ten years old then, were sleeping peacefully I was having one of the worst nights of my life!

We boarded, flew to Frankfurt, changed flights and when sitting in the plane I only saw this tunnel without end, so it seemed. Dürrenmatt’s short story “The Tunnel” came to my mind where the protagonist is sitting in a train looking out of the window when the train enters a tunnel. First, he does not notice anything while looking at other travelers as there was nothing special about that tunnel, but then the tunnel does not end, not after a while, not after a long, or even very long while. The ordinary tunnel has just turned into an endless tunnel. The protagonist then notices that the tunnel seems to lead deeper and deeper into the ground and wonders if it was actually leading to hell – I cannot recall the outcome of the story. I think it somehow stops, but he never gets out of the tunnel.

So my plane felt like a tunnel, an endless tunnel. And when we had taken off from Sal and flew over the 40 minutes to Banjul, the capital of The Gambia, I was fearing we would land in the swamps … I was soaked when we stepped into the sand loaded, warm night in Africa – only to start scaring that I would suffocate from the sand in the air, hardly able to breathe. Only when my boys were lying peacefully at rest under the mosquito net in the hotel in Banjul and I was – again – lying wide awake in the night, and only when there was this hot shiver going down my spine, I suddenly realised that it must all have been the side-effects of the malaria medication. I stopped taking them and the mental agony also stopped a few days later.

Sal is probably the most touristy of all the Cap Verde Islands. Sandy beaches, surfers, kite-surfers hotspot, all inclusive. I remember a flat, sandy island in pale evening light. We had stopped there for about an hour, refilled gasoline. The passengers leaving us – actually most of them – who wanted to go to The Gambia? – had to walk over the sand-dusted runway towards the small, flat airport building.

It had been some time later that this picture sprang up again in my mind – the Cap Verde Islands are almost located on the same level as The Gambia and southern Sénégal – yet, being isolated out there in the ocean there are no major illnesses to be feared, no malaria, no dengue, no sleep-illness or yellow-fever. It seemed to be Africa without the hazards of Africa – the only backlash being that people spoke Portuguese, as the Cap Verde Islands used to be a Portuguese colony. That had been the moment when I started thinking of visiting the islands. But cheap charter flights went there midweek or on Monday, making it impossible for me to stay longer than a week in the cold winter season – as a teacher I normally have to conform to school holidays. So, my sabbatical was the moment to grasp the chance and fly there for a good three weeks. But then came corona and made planning unforeseeably difficult. And then my fellow teacher fell ill – I was asked to step in, help out and organise short – and later long-term substitutes. Plans crumbled.

Luckily my headmaster allowed me to make up for it and so here I am, flying to São Vicente, one of the Cap Verde Islands, writing my travel blog again – in English of course!

The landing is spectacular – we go down way out on the ocean only to hit the ground almost right after the shore! And there it is – a small building, resembling a factory shed, the Césaria Evora International Airport of São Vicente. I’ll get through passport check rather quickly – even though Cap Verde takes it seriously. Yet, nothing compared to getting into Namibia! A first taste of the late afternoon temperature – summer!

Lots of taxis and pick-ups are waiting for travelers outside the airport building and one after the other finds its visitors to the island – except for me. There I am, sitting alone on the curb waiting for my pick-up guy to come. The airport staff is departing, the security guys as well, the airport falls into a sleepy mood, the lonely TAP airplane standing next to the runway. What a sight!

Only the statue of Césaria Evora is greeting me. I’m able to call my travel agency by whatsapp (connection within the airport astonishingly fine) and after another half an hour waiting or so, someone picks me up, at last.

One thing I’ve already noticed are the stray dogs – there are a lot of them. No stray cats, though, not a single.

The air is hot and humid – I’m close to the equator. Sunset is fast, within 20 minutes it’s dark. From my hotel I hurry to the seafront and take a few pictures – beautiful! I don’t know yet what it feels like, but it’s something between colourful African vibrant life and European organisation with a touch of Caribbean feeling.

Here I am two hours behind middle European time zone – I clear up my luggage before I go to the nearby Casa Café Mindelo – the waiter is extremely nice, the food fine (tuna fish skewers), the wine (local, form the volcano island of Fogo) delicious. On top there is live music, great, I’m loving it. A European lady is all and about dancing to the music. She tries to encourage other guests, who are a bit more reluctant. But it’s a nice evening – and only a few steps from my hotel. I sleep well and wake up at 4 o’clock, quite naturally, as it is 6 o’clock in Switzerland right now.

So, I’ve to wait for 3 hours yet until I can get breakfast. Some people next door move out, a taxi has pulled up in front of the hotel. They’re probably going to the airport – I imagine the little shed full of sudden life and the TAP flight back to Lisbon.

After breakfast I set out to explore Mindelo. I follow my guidebook and head east up the hill to the Fortim – the remains of an old fort, the view from up there is supposed to be nice. When I turn into the road that is leading up the hill there is a man in a light-blue jacket sitting on a narrow stone-wall. I wander up, astonished about the niceness of the buildings. This must be a rather well-off area of Mindelo. When I arrived at the outcrop (the view is truly nice) I have a notion that this guy has actually followed me up the hill. I hide behind a parked car and then, seemingly casual, walk back down, past the guy. I try to speed up without getting him noticed, yet I soon realise that he IS actually following me. All alarms are on by now and I speed up even more trying to get to an area where there are more people. I pass a building site (there are builders) and get down to the seafront (where there are a lot of people). I feel safer now, yet, the man is still following me. Being a bit overweight, he has taken off his jacket, sweating, as I’ve sped up even more.

At one moment I cross the road – I want to see whether he’s doing the same – positive. I cross it a second time and head into last night’s restaurant telling the waitress about the stranger following me. Awardrobe of a Canadian sailor is standing at the counter picking up what I’m saying. He offers to accompany me where ever I want– as he has time – he says. Andrew came over from Vancouver about 3 weeks ago and will sail a ship back to Southern America. Now, he’s just having a few good days here in Mindelo – he smokes like hell (not only cigarettes), has already made tons of friends, but as a bodyguard that guy will do!!! My uninvited follower is still sitting in front of Casa Café Mindelo. And – he follows US down to the market.

Some women are selling vegetables, and lots of Senegalese people trying to sell those typical Western Africa souvenirs: trousers, shirts, chains, wooden carvings – I’ve seen it all back then in the late 90ties when I spent so much time in Western Africa.

At the market we learn, though, that this guy is a lunatic and obviously had caused similar problems before. We even approach him, but he doesn’t answer. When we stop a taxi and pretend to leave or call the police he finally lets off.

I’ve never experienced a similar situation on any of my trips. I invite Andrew for a coffee and later go down to the market again.

There are a few very beautiful colonial buildings in Mindelo. Some of them are nicely done up, a lot of them are completely run down. Mindelo is situated at the rim of a crater, the crater forming a natural harbour. When steam engines replaced wind craft on ships more and more the Brits seized Mindelo’s potential and made it into a huge refueling place for ships crossing over from Europe to the Americas. Coal was brought from Cardiff/Wales, and many ship chandlers set up business here at Mindelo’s heyday. Those wonderful houses go back to this time, the late 19^th century. When liquid fuel replaced coal Mindelo became unimportant and fell back to the sleepiness of an island far off the shores of Europe.

And there was Césaria Evora, la grande dame do Sodade, Morna, this kind of sad, melancholic music that is so famous for the Cap Verde Islands, similar to Portuguese fado. She used to sing in the bars of Mindelo and that’s where she is still highly honoured.

I find Mindelo refreshing the first evening. The live music at Café Casa Mindelo, the colourful houses and market. But after I’ve walked up and down the streets of Mindelo a few times I realise its limited potential and am glad to leave the next day.