The theft in Cape Verde

The capital Praia is nothing but a small town, and the Cape Verde islands are far out in the ocean; it’s a place where you would expect shy fishermen, timid kids, etc. Instead you’ll find the complex and tightly woven net of poverty-related misery, with drugs and crimes all over the place. Even locals at the neighbouring islands will think twice before taking a trip to Praia.

All the Cape Verde islands are beautiful, though, and we couldn’t resist checking out the capital. And besides, we were low in cat food.

We paid our own guardsman; he was recommended by the pilot book (for whatever reason I never fully understood) and the guardsman even recommended himself, but even so we got theft from Bika.

Let me tell you about the cat food first: there was none. Cruisers with cat should bring plenty of cat food before coming to Cape Verde. Nina explained what kind of food she meant, and the shop assistants went to great lengths to understand the whole concept of cats having their own food. They seemed really puzzled by this (I once read that most Africans would consider white Europeans as slightly insane, an opinion that’s probably well-founded).

While at the store, looking for cat food, we had teenagers swimming out to Bika. They unscrewed most of the steelwork around the washboard, (a painful work, I guess, using a knife from our bucket of unfinished dishes) before one of the brighter kids realized that the fore hatch was wide open.

They didn’t take much. Among the items was a futuristic solar and hand-driven radio, which could prove itself worthy in a post-apocalyptic place like Praia, although I doubt the kids managed to keep the radio dry, swimming back to shore.

Our cat was still sleeping on the berth. She couldn’t care less about items missing. We contemplated the corrupt police for a minute or so, and decided to let the cat set the standard for how to react.

Cape Verde

We had almost two months of gale, and a rough time sailing among the Cape Verde islands. The dust blows all the way from Sahara. The islands are often a bit hazy.

Maybe it’s the dust that makes the light so soft. When the sun was low it used the wavy hills like a earthen canvas. The shadows crept slowly over cliffs and rocks.

The highest islands had a thin layer of green foliage on the top, often with fog or clouds. From the boat we could see white buildings like crusts of salt in the mountains.

In the dark there were nothing. At anchor we slept with the strong trade wind shrieking. Bika heeled over in the gusts, like we were sailing.

Before the Atlantic

Brava was the smallest of the Cape Verde Islands, and also our last stop before crossing the Atlantic. The top of the island had windswept trees and clusters of colonial brick houses in fog and decay.

Bastard dogs were lurking around freely. They all seemed to be the colour of sand or rock, moving in groups.

We met a 76 year old sailor who had retired from Norwegian shipping. He drank most of the time and dragged us along on several boozing sessions. There were always some drinking going on in bars and in the back rooms of shops. We drank home brewed rum and went out in the fog.

Bika needed a clean bottom, but the water was surprisingly cold. We were introduced to a young man who was willing to go through the pain for money. He came up every fifteen minutes for a shot of rum and dove down under again. Later he sat in our cockpit with chattering teeth. He told us he could see the image of himself, projected down below, from somewhere.