The Cabo Verdes

Nick and I have been sailing and exploring these astonishing volcanic islands since the 6th of December when we competed the sailing passage from the Canary islands in 6 days. We managed to find the islands, using our GPS, hidden in the haze of Saharan dust blown to sea by the harmatten. There was no point even looking for the sun until it was another 15 degrees above the horizon. The Cabe Verdes gasp into the hot unfiltered light 325 nm off the West African coast at a point that was once the mid Atlantic ridge. The tallest of the 14 islands, Ile de Fogo is still an active volcano. Huge black lava flows from as recently as 1995 are draped from its 2800 metre high rim. The Island chain form a crescent open to the west- we entered top right and are skipping (mostly overnight) through the chain to be shot out into the Atlantic at their southern point – next stop the Caribbean!

It’s hard to describe the Verdes, each village and anchorage has its own individual scenery, character and memories for us but there is something common to all of them – the basics. The Cape Verde Islands were governed by Portugal from the early 1800’s to 1975 when they became one of the few African republics to gain independence without bloodshed. That’s a comforting feeling as you wander around. The population is mostly of African or Afro-Portuguese decent – an outcome of the Portuguese bringing black slaves here up until 1876 to work at growing something… anything, on the stony dry mountains. The population is very poor, sanitation is basic, men are muscly, unemployment is high and we have been warned that crime in the bigger cities is bad although we never met this. I’ve noticed that the women are never idle. In public they are carrying big plastic buckets on there heads, selling home made biscuits or peanuts, sweeping or sitting behind counters. They are generally very beautiful – (I wonder if this is due to human selection). The people are mostly immune to our presence, eye contact is always inhibited unless there is a motive to communicate and then they transform into marauders.

The beaches are deplorably rubbish strewn and at smaller fishing harbours the nearest shore is also used as the toilet. Waste disposal means tossing your rubbish off the nearest cliff or into a creek bed. It’s terrible. Coca Cola should be held responsible for all their plastic bottles washed upon beaches. I’d apologise to the hundreds of dolphins here on behalf of all humans if I was as multilingual as Flipper. I am forming the view that the concept of “development” is a paradox in many ways.

In the market high on the plateau in Praia, Ile de Santiago, it was hard to keep am eye on Nicks back (pack) as I was agog at the happenings around us. No room to move, rambunctious ladies yabbering for our attention as we squeezed past there little stalls or stacked goods on the rough and dirty cobbles. There were your ubiquitous brown root vegetables next to bloody stumps (fly encrusted) for killing chickens, salted strips of fat, piglets, turkeys, muscovy ducks and brown chickens all happily nestled together, indifferent to our thongs passing close to their dirty snouts. There were smelly goats leashed to rocks. A man carrying a sailfish over his shoulder manoeuvred his way through. Most commonly street vendors would be selling low quality American clothing brought in as “in kind” aid. It finally made sense to me why all the younger generation stride around looking like Beyonce Knowles and Snoop Dog. Despite this, a “friend” who attached himself to us for a day said he supported Bin Ladin and disliked the fact that a NATO ship was stationed in the port waiting deployment to Iraq. He thought they were spying on where the US aid money was going.

From our first day, it seems Nick has been lucky with the waves, to the point where my eyebrows loose balance and I burst out laughing; We keep hearing “this is the best it’s been for months!” from the local surfers and we happen to have anchored paddling distance from the break on three occasions without even knowing it existed. I’m thinking of making a sign “SURF DEVINER – MATES RATES”.

Guest Blog by MR GRAEME DOUGLAS (applause)

You can’t eat airline food with any sort of dignity. At least not while jammed in the cheap seats of a British Airways flight seated next to two old, dead English holiday makers. Well, perhaps not dead, but certainly decaying. Which is why I never touch the stuff.But faced with ten days at sea with presumably nothing but Moby Dick like rations of sea biscuits, whale blubber and wee’s for sustenance I tucked into my foiled dinner on the flight to meet Nick, Patti and Pina Colada in the Canary Islands. However my expectations of living the culinary misery of a classic novel were not meet. Oddly it was more like Return Of The Jedi*.I sat for days like Jabba The Hut in the cockpit of the boat gorging on more or less whatever I wanted. If Patti wasn’t making Spinach and Feta pie, Nick was catching Tuna, gutting the little sucker, pan frying it and covering it in Canary Islands mojo sauce. And, by Christ, there’s enough booze on board to kill six or seven alcoholics. I lived like a fat old Tatooine warlord I tell you. Pity those poor fools that waste their money on cruise ships, with their fancy restaurants, illegal gambling, disco-teks and men in tight white shorts – it’s all on Pina Colada.It wasn’t just the food though. No, the Spanish military were amusing, running up and down the beach with their khaki’s and guns waving their arms and their fighter jets at us. We didn’t want to stay in their perfect little military restricted bay anyway.

The old Germans, ironically, also very amusing. Well, to laugh at. Assuming you find nude obesity funny. They’ve colonized the Canary Island of Furtafentura like a herd of old sea lions, rolling around the beaches with their flabby breasts flopping everywhere. Sausage, sausage, sausage everywhere you look. I came close to dropping my gelato on more than one occasion laughing at their vain attempts to have a good time. Ah Germans, so funny.I know you’re thinking ‘god, so many highlights’, but I haven’t even begun. When was the last time you sat out on the bow of a yacht at midnight on the edges of the Atlantic, perfectly warm, gently rolling along with the swell watching the phosphorescence sparkle in the dark? Or snorkeling around the boat in 30 feet of clear water half an hour after eating fresh, delicious seafood in a small town café? There’s bunch more. A fantastic time had. And aside from their kitchen talents I’ve barely touched on what perfect hosts Nick, Patti and Pina Colada are.As much as I detest sharing, I’m not a selfish guy. But I will say this. While I can’t recommend anything better than joining them for some part of their trip back to NZ, I hate to think they might be overrun by guests, filling all available berths and stopping me from stepping on board again. Which I’m determined will be the Caribbean or Panama. I’ve got dibs on the bed in the bow.

* This reference is in no way meant as endorsement for that shabby nonsense Stars Wars or talent barren one hit wonder George what’s his name.