Travel in Cape Verde - Paradise

Entertainment adogchasingcars August 7, 2016 0 0
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The Cape Verde islands, known as Cape Verde, will catapult you back to a world where the fish still comes straight from the sea and you buy punch in Coke bottles. Be guided by the local blues.

Mindelo Bay

The gullet in the 'cheek bakkes' Cape Verde, there is calm. In the lower jaw of mountains behind crumbling down, chewed choose the centuries. There are quite a few wrecks in the harbor, one even, as a warning beacon, on the edge of the fairway. How many there are, exactly, is hard to tell the difference between a working fishing boat and a stranded coaster is not always clear. A Russian tug I am certain: the stern is flooded, his bow is up ?? just a big, black fish, frozen in his jump, photographed by time. The romantic in me makes musing notes to the carcass: the beauty of decay, the intensification of stainless steel tear-jerker. The journalist adheres to the facts: that masters no honor here their ships aground come put in order to pocket the insurance premium. The former sailor sees the wrecks the boats are ironed and how the shadowy crew ashore brought ashore for a night: drivers with tattoos on their necks, blind stokers, sailors ship's musicians and testosterone. I'm going after them.

Faded glory

Once was Mindelo, the capital of the island of São Vicente, on the beating heart of Cape Verde. Who wanted to sail far, there had inevitably bunkering. Away from the tentacles of Victorian morality, were sailors in Mindelo indulge in mocha-colored beauties and wild music, banquets and grogue, the Cape Verdean rum. But then went diesel replaced steam and range of vessels increased by thousands of miles. Without batting an eyelid, to tear, no compassion left lying captains Cape Verde ?? s Gomorrah left, as it was an old, broken served whore. The city imploded and fell prey to chaos. And yet she is not fully recovered from the shock. Employment continues here ?? and by extension in all the islands ?? an immense problem, the need for economic activity, sometimes poignant. I do not mind relieving a bit of Mindelo ?? s emergency decree and checkout ?? s to fill a few small independents. In an open-air I find the white wine from the island of Fogo: muscatel branco, little soil, plenty of tropical fruit, rarely ?? s full, complex white wine enjoyed.

Local blues

I put mine on the Plaça Amilcar Cabral and drink grogue at the kiosk at the head of the square. A pair of small speakers blaring distress Cesária Évora, guardian of the Cape Verde sodade, an endemic form of melancholy where not only artists and musicians suffer, but almost the entire population. The diva, who began her singing career along Mindelo ?? s waterfront, garnered until her death in December success from Stockholm to Pretoria. Morna so hot the Cape Verdean blues. Except for the few whites seems no older than twenty-five. And not just the average age is low, the absolute: the teenagers to look wise and the elderly behave as a jumping-in - ?? t field. The square becomes more crowded, bubbling over. People flood the streets in, the music cafes drip inside. I let myself drift. The air in the backstreets full of fried seafood. Café Mindelo I eat thick lentil soup, ravioli ?? s corn flour stuffed with bonito and grilled lobster with saffron rice. It challenges a high-voiced, skinny singer on a epigone of Cesária. Her husband plays cavaquinhos, the local variant of the ukulele, and she wants me smiling broadly tempted by a dance. I myself have to buy out and after a round of rum they let me in my dignity stiff, old rake.

Sport fishing

My breakfast coffee tastes like pulled from basalt grit. At the marina alone darting under an acacia men and a pipe-smoking grandma sells in a washtub supplied bananas and papayas ?? s. All textile sellers have a sewing machine and every purchase can be taken on the spot. Because Cape Verdeans are born with strings between their ribs and a drumhead over their beaks, fish sales workers move dancing between the stalls. Their husbands solve yellowfin. They handle the fish ?? which I estimate at over sixty kilograms ?? as dumbbells and understanding angler will get a totally different connotation. Horse mackerel come in many sizes and all parrotfish wear a clown suit. Tuna Eyes are a delicacy sold separately and the leftovers from last week were salted, dried and beaten down beyond recognition. Between piles of bones and heads tack dogs and sardine-like outside peddle children ?? in full sun and therefore, to the newly fashionable culinary trend, cooked at low temperature. Mindelo is Africa pur sang, but without beggars, without corrupt cops and trigger-happy soldiers.
Zak Conde, renowned fishing champion, verschalker of monstrous swordfish, brings me with his boat to Santo Antao. Once away from the shelter of the pier takes the wind in our side. Some fellow passengers complained lunch. We follow a little way off the coast of São Vicente. On the mobile white line between land and sea, between fall and keep up with difficulty, children are fishing. The clouds are like glaciers on the flanks of the islands and with our shaving fish flying low over the waves. On the quay of Santo Antao is waving after a bronze Mrs. emigrants ?? there are more Cape Verdeans live in the diaspora than on the islands themselves.
Almost does not make sense here. Those who opposed them, ends up in a century that is not his.
The mountain landscapes where I am driven through it, are among the finest and most spectacular in the world. The deep V ?? s the valleys resemble the casting pits of sharp peaks. Here lives a kingfisher species that never saw a fish and for generations forced to eat insects; Sancho, an evil monkey and, like Nho Lobo the wolf, a solitary animal fable; rebelados, members of a strict, Christian-oriented sect, the black variant of the Quakers; the mysterious Ngong-ngongvogel which ?? evening comes and sings like a whale hundred meters depth, which has a Latin name, and thus exists. In a clearing, in the sun, on a carpet of pine needles XXL I eat my sandwich brought with chicken and red onion.

East West home is best

Almost above the vision is limited to thirty meters. Along the road loom on donkeys from the mists, meager goats knekelhonden and chickens with bare necks crooked men and hazy children, a settlement. Santo Antao has no airport and the small harbor provides hardly any facilities. Many natives and probably the inhabitants of this village have never left their island. Under their bell goes to live by a different rhythm, almost does not make sense here and those who are against the isolation resistance, is lost in the mist of all days or entering a century that is not his. A mother washes her offspring's hair, old men sit caps a storage pod peas, men nibble their last teeth on their pipe steal, two teenage girls sitting on a sidewalk to a teenager, giggling. I was thirsty and you will guide me to the local grocery store, housed in a shoe box store. On the shelves: four suits spaghetti, two bottles of olive oil five liters buses grogue, six packets of tomato soup cans without labels. One bottle of beer. In a refrigerator at gas state the rest of the crate. It must have been at the top of Santo Antao after six days that God saw that it was good.

Fauna and flora

In the garden of my hotel on the northeast side of the island proliferates what's called a houseplant with us, as weeds alongside the paths between the bungalows. Bright red and yellow flowers sharp popping fireworks bouquets from the rocks. The leaves of the agave look like swords and bamboo stems are thick and tall as vaulting poles. Pink hibiscus, coffee trees and many Mediterranean plants, mimosas and eucalyptus. Across the valley waving in the warm breeze cane with his ostrich feathers. I let me to Vila das Pombas, a village along the coast, feeding. Overlooking the ocean I hear the beach pebbles, so sanded smooth as petanque balls, to the rhythm of the waves dokkeren back and forth. The facades of the houses have been peeled off ?? nothing is resistant to the combination of water, wind, salt and sand. Behind a low wall, a courtyard, is distilled from sugar cane grogue. Above the gate to sit in their web spiders on guard, black-yellow and the size of a beach crab. The oxen which the press mill drive their laps for today already sit up and stand in their stalls dazed to spin after. Every day they turn drunk. Against the concrete walls of the distillery pin hang-ups, all white. Half a dozen goats is tied up with one front paw, poultry cackles and waddles up and around and over the mill. Alcohol disinfected, fortunately, because I think there are small amounts of duck shit in the grogue justified. The master distiller sells his liquor in the bottles he can find: wine, beer, water, glass, plastic. The corks he makes banana plant. I buy punch, grogue with molasses in a cola bottle. Even the color is correct.

Salty past

A small twin-engine plane has me on a bumpy wolkenpad brought to the island of Sal. On the way to my hotel I pass out the tires, stones and planks built favelas from the main town Espargos. Along the border attempting to grow some green in the mixture of salt, dust, goat droppings and iron oxide: sweet potatoes, cassava, courgette like aboburas. I imagine that on the hottest days, the corn is cooked and salted from the flasks. Among the plants rage windhoosjes and the few cows drown in the mirage. The island is one big rust stain on two hills after beaten flat on the anvil of the gods. Amid much nothing is a ijscrèmekarretje ?? no mirage, assures me the taxi driver. Even the rare billboards are collapsed under the heat, portable phones have their panels must dissolve and be part fallen to the ground. Along the road, a woman with a jerry can of water on the head, her T-shirt is printed ?? I ?? m the bitch you married ??. At Pedra de Lume was four centuries long been won from seawater. Today it houses in the village a few fishing families from the dismantled ships and onthalsde cranes that were left by the last salt workers in 1985. The men have seen leave the mijnontginners when Senegal, the last customer, dropped out. The salt goes its own way, eats the steel and hardwood away from the machinery, glows green from the hills turn red and the whites of the remaining villagers. A boat passes inside the miniature harbor. There is hustle and nervousness on the dock, everyone drags with bags, tubs and buckets. Who why, what and how of getting the catch landed, it is not clear to me. The fish is cleaned on the spot: wine red striped bass, small tuna, trout enamelled with blue dots. I walk a little way inland and everything falls again prey to the silence. I saw the sea not, I got anxious. No lizard to rustle up the mess, not a seagull screeches which inspires confidence.
Sal is a paradise for boaters and at specific places you see just off the coast of the dozens of brightly colored kites of the kite surfers. Their world is derived from Sal, sports and live there and lead a school. I drink my last glass of Cape Verde wine on the terrace of my hotel. A kitesurfer disappear burning in the red sinking sun. I see how the charcoal black of night slowly, with an inch thick, is rubbed into the blue of dusk. I do not mind so ?? s eco-friendly house, here or at São Vicente. Or at Santo Antao. Or between the vines on Fogo.

Buracona

In Buracona machinery glows green from the hills turn red and the whites of the remaining villagers. A boat passes inside the miniature harbor. There is hustle and nervousness on the dock, everyone drags with bags, tubs and buckets. Who why, what and how of getting the catch landed, it is not clear to me. The fish is cleaned on the spot: wine red striped bass, small tuna, trout enamelled with blue dots. I walk a little way inland and everything falls again prey to the silence. I saw the sea not, I got anxious. No lizard to rustle up the mess, not a seagull screeches which inspires confidence.
Sal is a paradise for boaters and at specific places you see just off the coast of the dozens of brightly colored kites of the kite surfers. Their world is derived from Sal, sports and live there and lead a school. I drink my last glass of Cape Verde wine on the terrace of my hotel. A kitesurfer disappear burning in the red sinking sun. I see how the charcoal black of night slowly, with an inch thick, is rubbed into the blue of dusk. I do not mind so ?? s eco-friendly house, here or at São Vicente. Or at Santo Antao. Or between the vines on Fogo.
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