Hiking in Cabo Verde
This is a story where nothing really happens. Something akin to laying down in a hammock on a quiet summer's afternoon, observing the world as it gently unfolds, layer by layer, a ray of sunshine hitting a raindrop hanging onto a sunflower petal, bouncing off the surface of the pond, filling your eyes with wonder. Nothing really happens. Everything does.
Santo Antão welcomed us with the intensity of taxi offers and the intensity of the golden hour, warm light falling over scattered goats, donkeys and mysterious doorways carved in stone at the foot of the mountains. The communal taxi was a minivan with its windows wide open, the whooshing of the wind interweaving with the giggling of the girls sitting behind us, blasting the melodies of one song after the other, interlacing with the driver's argument, or more like a discussion, with the passenger next to him, erupting into laughter. The slope got steeper and steeper, the van struggled more and more, and suddenly it choked and stopped, the driver looked at us and told us he can drive us no longer, so we hopped onto a dusty road and continued on our own feet.
We didn't stay alone for long, it was the pattern that week, help being offered before we would ask for it. Before the taxi disappeared into a cloud of dust, there it was, a friendly voice asking if we need any help. It was Sarah, who backpacked Chile, who lives in Italy, whose favourite place in the whole world is the very valley we were walking on. She told us that no matter where she goes, the smell of sugarcanes brings her straight back home. Sarah was walking dogs with her uncle, their expedition joining us and helping us carry our water. After a while their friend joined in, took over our water, then disappeared further up the hill, and that is how, step by step, from caring hands to caring hands, our water bottles, and our tired bodies, reached the top of the hill.
That night we saw stars, our bellies full of baked fish and yams, the path full of frogs resting on cooling rocks, lizards flashing by. But we didn't meet our first centipede until the day two.
We woke up with gentle light flowing into the room, mountains bathing in the promise of a sunrise, not being sure what time it is, not wanting to know, not needing to know. We read in a hammock under a papaya tree. A dragonfly zoomed above the pond. That was all that happened that morning. Nothing? Everything.
I was reading Terence McKenna's book about the power of nature and our connection to it. Not only the connection to the nature itself, but connection to its power, to its magic, for a lack of a more worldly word. And I could sense it all. As I was biting into a slice of a chunky papaya, as a bunch of fish tickled my toes by diving in between them, as the clouds were rolling over the mountains, as I stepped into the sun to hike up and down the paths of sugarcane plantations. As the birds kept dancing over the cereal bowls, feasting on papayas when they thought no one was looking. We were all feasting.
Our hike took us up a mountain, to gardens set up a thousand meters above the sea, full of lush cabbages and ripe tomatoes, with entire fields full of taro plants, and a lost pigeon wondering around, confused how it got there in the first place. A person walking in the fields approached us, telling us there are cold drinks just around the corner, and walking alongside us. I was put on alert because he made a phone call, Marco was put on alert because he understood the words in the phone call. I am bringing two people, he said. But even the thriller part of this story is not that intense, as the wife of our temporary guide showed up a minute later, and after a few more moments we were sitting at a small wooden table on a terrace of blue wooden house, finally getting a chance to grab a glass of papaya juice, looking at the peaks and our hiking path snaking down the valley.
That morning we were given a map for the hike - a hand-drawn map, with illustrations of key landmarks, some of which were more helpful than others. We were told to walk down the path until we see a mango tree, and then turn right. We saw a mango tree every few meters. But, as often happens, when we saw the right one, we knew that was it, and we turned right. Some signs were even more transient than that. When you pass cows, you should be on the right way, we were told. I highly doubted that the cows would chose to hang around at the same spot all day long, all year long. But the time would come, and we would run into a cow in the midst of a banana grove, tied tightly to a tree. Hand-drawn, with wobbly sense of scale, these maps never failed us. Or, almost never, as at one point we were crossing a coffee plantation, and faced a fork in the road, and took a right because it felt right, but ended up on a path we didn't plan to take to. We were open to the change of plans though. And that worked out beautifully as we came back through a village throwing a party to celebrate the day of Saint Fatima, market stalls lining the street, selling spices and dresses, weaved baskets, gambling attracting tons of attention with a simple game of a cup, a dice and 6 numbers written down. You bet on 1 or 2 or 3 or 4 or 5 or 6. A dice falls. The fall is revealed. You win, you lose. You feast.
After a long hike we kept feasting, drinking glasses of sugarcane juice and tasting cachupa, a local bean stew, and the desert of (you guessed it) papaya. Next to our table there was a jar with a giant centipede marinating in it, and a giant cauldron on the fire, embers glowing. We kept hiking in the following days. One morning, as we rested in a shade of a mango tree, a dog ran up the mountain path, and laid down to rest next to us, and as we got up to go, the dog followed. We called her Manga. She guided us up the mountain, and disappeared just as mysteriously as she appeared, a transition guide. Though Marco thought she left as she got impatient with our slow pace. Which is a good moment to mention that it's not as romantic as it sounds, I struggled with hiking up and down in the scorching sun, deep breaths in through the nose, deep breaths out through the mouth, Marco telling me I sound like Darth Vader and finding it hilarious, me finding it less hilarious and feeling like throwing a (you guessed it) papaya at someone, if only I had any energy to spare. But as the peaks got reached and I started to breath like a human being (I won't even attempt a Star Wars metaphor), I enjoyed the path again, butterflies fluttering by, the size of half my palm, looking almost a bit digital, you never know in this day and age of deep fakes. On the last day, on the last hike, I almost fell off the cliff while looking back to wave hello to a little girl. Which was sign that it was time. We left the land of avocado and breadfruit trees, smelling of sugarcanes and smoke, of sun and wood, and earthy herbs that chose to remain a mystery.
The next day we were waving hello to Tânia, who rented us an apartment in São Vicente. We asked if the area is safe. She said yes, until 18:30. The beautiful apartment that is safe until 18:30 was situated closed to the beach, and Tânia mentioned an opportunity to visit turtles. Before we knew it, our plan of a quiet last day turned into another trip. The turtle beach was full of massive pointy seashells, that young beach dwellers wanted to sell us. Got to respect the hustle, Marco said. The sand was scorching hot, and there were a couple of boats on the shore. We waved yet another set of hellos, got asked if we can swim, got told that we can't touch the turtles, and off we went. We jumped into a motor boat together with its captain, and as a wave was coming in, we were pushed into the ocean. Our captain arranged some fish that kept jumping as they could probably sense what's coming. He offered them as a sacrifice to the turtles, who quickly surrounded the boat, and left me squealing with glee, as they looked exactly like animated turtles in Finding Nemo. Maybe turtles from this beach were casted for the movie. Most of them were old enough for that. Our captain started naming the turtles. Here is Stephany, and here is John, and look, there is Maria. He asked us if we like the turtles, and after our enthusiastic agreement, he told us to go swim with them. We got snorkelling masks, we didn't get any life jackets, the only ones in sight were used as cushioning for the hard wooden boat seats. Off we jumped into the ocean. Needless to say, the Atlantic ocean tasted salty. I know, because I was clumsy with my mask. I kept going into the bracing position we were taught to avoid touching turtles - arms crossed on the chest - but the turtles had fun diving in between us, sometimes, it seemed, brushing by on purpose. Marco thought one turtle in particular really liked me. I liked them all.
As the sun was setting, we waved goodbye to Cabo Verde off the roof, to Santo Antão looming on the horizon in front of us, to São Vicente laying below us, to the last boats reaching the harbour, to the kind people - and Manga the dog - who helped us reach the end of the trip unharmed and, much more so, fulfilled.
We kept getting lost in the vast apartment we were staying at, so the last morning we ended up playing hide-and-seek, if we're lost, at least we can be found. The airport of São Vicente felt less suitable for hiding. There was a single gate, and so few flights, well spaced out, that at any given point we could be quite sure that everyone in the airport - apart from staff - were passengers waiting for the very same flight. Quite bonding, come to think of it. We saw four more people we met at Santo Antão the week before. It's a small world. It's an even smaller airport. The Duty Free store took up about two square meters, but it was the mot fascinating Duty Free store I've ever seen. I bought socks, Marco got sugarcane honey, banana jam and grogue - a local liquer that was praised by a local at the turtle beach bar the other day. In Europe, you work work work, he said. Here, we relax more, we don't have much, but look, he said - gesturing at the ocean brimming with gentle giant turtles. I looked. The sun, the ocean, the beach, the seashells. The turtles. The opposite of not much.
Nothing? Everything.
