Cape Verde to Discover
The morning after my arrival, following breakfast and freeing myself from a chatty colleague, I headed to the beach, marking the beginning of my journey in Cape Verde. The resort wasn’t anything special, and the food was just okay, but the beach was truly a surprise.
Over a hundred meters deep and so long that I couldn’t see the end. I started walking toward the endless horizon. Ahead lay America; behind me, Africa—Black Africa. As I moved farther from the hotel on my journey through Cape Verde, my footprints on the sand grew sparser, and the feeling of finally being alone began to envelop me. My thoughts drifted back to Italy, where I knew it was raining, and the temperature wasn’t exactly mild. I passed a couple of tourists fishing, with a distinctly European look, and a bit later, I crossed paths with a trio of Italians (a woman, a man, and their friend), talking loudly, laughing, almost disruptive—how inconsiderate tourists can sometimes be.
At a certain point, the beach curved, and after a few hundred meters, the island of Boa Vista came into view.
The sky is clear, and I can make out the forests on the slopes of the hills. Among the dunes to my right, I spot a local man sitting. There is still nothing else around. Perhaps he’s looking at me—how could he miss the only human figure animating the horizon? I keep walking, and after a few minutes, I see another figure moving among the dunes. In the distance, a graceful, white sailing ship appears, and a few boats are taking a handful of adventurous tourists out to sea.
Sal, the Starting Point of My Cape Verde Journey
I think about how everything here feels minimalist, essential, linear, just like the name of the island itself: Sal. Little more than a large aircraft carrier, flat, with barely a tree in sight (unless one’s been transplanted in front of a hotel room). A vast salt flat where Cape Verdean history has passed without leaving any real traces other than the intercontinental airport. Since the postwar years and for a few decades after, European and South American airlines stopped here to refuel on their routes to and from South America—a time of modern pioneers. Back then, as in Praia and the other islands, there was very little here. The splendor of the colonial past was visible only in the remaining crumbling colonial architecture. Salazar’s Portugal seemed to have forgotten (for better or worse) about these volcanic outbursts in the middle of the Atlantic, which they had come to colonize when their ships sailed victoriously across half the world’s seas.
The Seventies
Around the 1970s, with the advent of jet engines, planes became faster, and their range increased. The transatlantic crossing could now be made without stopping, and Cape Verde “died” a second time. Tourism has since brought back jobs and strong currency, with Sal once again as the launchpad—being the most accessible, with the best beaches. I’m now at the airport, where I’m jotting down these notes while waiting to depart for São Vicente. I came alone, leaving behind my occasional travel companion—a fellow journalist—who’s now basking in the sun. He’ll leave later for Santiago, and we’ll meet again in Fogo a few days before returning to Italy.
São Vicente is a beautiful island, far greener than Sal, which isn’t green at all.
The ATR 42 is full of French tourists just off a flight from Paris, along with a few Cape Verdean immigrants returning for a visit. They wear gold earrings, chunky chains, and techno hairstyles, along with, most notably, winter clothes, a status symbol here for those who live in Europe. Among them is an elegant woman in her fifties, at least as tall as I am (1.88 meters), wearing a leopard-print dress. She’s accompanied by her shorter French husband or partner, a few years older and in clear admiration of her. After he retrieves the luggage, she strides confidently through the small airport’s arrival hall, followed by a mountain of suitcases behind which her weary husband lags.
Mindelo, the main town on the island, had around 47,000 inhabitants at the time of my Cape Verde journey.
It’s considered a large city, renowned for its nightlife and charm. Very colonial, very Portuguese. The large squares and tree-lined streets are bordered by neoclassical and neo-baroque buildings painted in bright colors—perhaps unusual for us Europeans, but absolutely tasteful for Cape Verdeans.
Speaking of Cape Verdeans, this is where Catarina works.
She manages a nightclub, which seems fitting. I met Catarina in Florence exactly twenty years ago. Not very tall, well-proportioned, pretty, with great style—a gem, a chocolate bonbon with velvety skin and a sharp wit. She was somewhat snobbish, always fashionable and impeccably dressed. She lived by night, drifting from one nightclub to the next, part of Rome’s dolce vita. She knew everything about everyone who mattered. I never understood how she made a living, but that was a minor detail. I didn’t see her often—she had little time for someone as introspective as me. Before leaving, I had asked mutual friends for the name of the nightclub where she worked. The last time I’d heard from her was years ago. She had called me, having heard I was planning a graduation party, and, under the pretense of congratulating me, was fishing for an invitation. Wherever there was a party worth its name, she was there. Since then, nothing. A mutual friend, Claudio, had told me she had become as plump as a matron and returned to Cape Verde.
And now I’m in her city.
The hotel with her nightclub is right across from mine. It’s the best in the city, recently renovated. I’d expect nothing less for someone who lives by night, even in Mindelo. The evening is just cool enough to be comfortable outside. In the garden in the square, children play, and couples share whispered words of love. The salty scent from the sea reaches me—an aroma I love, living so far from the coast. I think back to the brief, tumultuous, and immature affair between a nineteen-year-old Cape Verdean and a shy architecture student. We had nothing in common, yet the attraction was intense. The desire to see her again is strong. I wonder what we’d have to talk about after all this time. A group of noisy tourists climbs the hotel steps, waving to the guard at the entrance. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. The children have gone home, and the couples have found better places to be. Even the few tourists have disappeared. I stand up and return to my hotel. The night is incredibly calm and quiet. A faint sense of nostalgia washes over me.
Mindelo Airport
December 7, 11:30 a.m. The TACV flight is delayed by an hour and a half. The temperature is ideal, with a light breeze that feels just right. The bar serves an excellent espresso from a slightly retro Cimbali machine. A couple of hefty Italian tourists nap sprawled on green, blue, and beige fabric chairs, spotted with stains of all kinds. The black plastic floor is clean, and a television is tuned to the local channel, broadcasting a fashion documentary. The runway runs perpendicular to the sea, and the terminal runs parallel—a perfect geometry. I gaze at the brand-new runway, flanked by barren mountains on the left and the blue sea on the right. The rest is emptiness. A minimalist panorama.
Improbable Portuguese designers dictate the guidelines for their collections into the microphones, while a few locals watch, half-interested.
An airport worker in an orange jumpsuit with “ASA” (Aeroporto Segurança Aerea) on his back circles the hefty, disinterested Italian tourists like a hawk around easy prey. His green eyes glance at them with poorly concealed nonchalance. The breeze coming through the open doors flips through the tourists’ books. A teenage window washer, sporting a red baseball cap, busily polishes the glass. More useless fashion on TV. There’s no traffic at this hour; the flight to Praia is the only one this morning. Outside, a line of colorful taxis looks like a display of 1980s Mercedes at a dealership. A slow drowsiness begins to undermine my frenetic European restlessness. Here, what would feel like a hassle at any other airport becomes a welcome moment of relaxation, an intriguing and reflective pause.
Perhaps Chatwin conceived In Patagonia in a moment just like this.
Capo Verde informazioni turistiche.
