Sal Island: Biblioteca Jorge Barbosa. 1.

My first time here was like 2 weeks ago. I was just a few days into my time on the island.

I probably just randomly headed out of Casa Varela – the inn where I was lodged, for an unpremeditated walk about, to get some sort of orientation with my new environment.

The water situation at Casa Varela could get annoying. My first few days were pretty fine – everything seemed to operate smoothly. The owner (I think she was the owner of the place) decided to bump me up to an interesting room on the topmost floor. I thought the room was cool – it had its own bathroom, and a balcony. I liked that.

On like the fourth day or so, I was shocked to realise that there was no water flowing in the bathroom.

What? Why is there no water? Is there something wrong with the pipes? Some control knob somewhere is stuck?

It felt like a very strange situation. The past year I had spent across San Francisco and Berlin, had made me accustomed to multi-hour showers and discretionary-lengthed bathtub soaks and central heating, without really having to think about how the underlying plumbing or water supply mechanism worked.

Okay so in San Francisco we used to discuss California’s droughts in class, but that felt like a distant, intellectual concern. I never had water abruptly stop flowing mid-shower because of concerns about a California drought. Things usually just worked without a hitch.

So it was surprising for me, suddenly coming to face this entire layer of operational abstraction that I had been completely oblivious of, for like the past year.

I communicated the issue to Nilton, the building manager.

Initially he just acknowledged the problem and promised to get it resolved ASAP.

When the same issue came up again not long after, he opened up and described the workings of the building’s water supply to me: There was a man who drove by every few days in a water-truck. He had a tank of water attached to his truck, and as he drove by he delivered water to his customers along the route.

Apparently there had been a complication with the arrangement. I’m not quite sure now- maybe he suddenly increased his prices, or he missed a delivery date – something. So essentially there was an issue with the water-truck guy, and consequently we had no water to use at Casa Varela.

Oh.

Okay. On the one hand I’m annoyed that there’s no water, but on the other hand I’m amused at the sort of logistical setup these guys have for their water supply.

Sal island is mostly desert. They get very little rainfall, and so there are practically no freshwater bodies to draw from. I don’t know where the water-truck guy gets his water, but apparently it’s generally in short supply.

I can’t help but wonder if there’s a desalination plant somewhere on the island. It seems paradoxical to be completely surrounded by a literal ocean of water, and yet experience a scarcity of water for domestic use. Strange.

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I’m no longer at Casa Varela.

I checked out after about two weeks or so. I was running out of money.

Haha.

I do not have a source of income here, and so I generally do what I can to really stretch out every Euro I have. My two week stay at Casa Varela was generally to provide me with essential living amenities while I got a feel for the environment.

Now I live in a cave.

Haah. Haha.

I was walking around Murdeira one day when I came across this small cave by the ocean. I had spent the previous night camping close-by, and then when the sun came up I decide to move about and look around.

I thought the cave looked cool. Eventually I decided to spend some time there, while I pondered on my next steps after leaving Casa Varela.

So far it’s been chill.

Quiet (well except for the waves crashing against the rocky shore about ten feet away).

Serene. Lots of space to think and dream and imagine. And contemplate my life outside the constructs of the societal expectations I felt somewhat boxed-in by.

Living in a literal cave however, you don’t have access to fundamental living amenities. So every now and then I visit a nearby town to charge my electronic devices, use an actual bathroom, and generally reacquaint myself with the foundational infrastructure of human civilisation.

This place seemed like a cool location to do that. Biblioteca Municipal Jorge Barbosa.

My first time here was like 2 weeks ago. I was just a few days into my time on the island. I probably just randomly headed out of Casa Varela for an unpremeditated walk about, to get some sort of orientation with the new environment.

I found the ambience of the library calming and entrancing somewhat. Or maybe I just generally found the whole of Sal island entrancing, because so much felt peculiar and surreal.

Cape Verde is my first time being in an African country that’s not Nigeria. And apparently there’s a unique psychological experience that comes with that.

Being in the US and in Germany – those where mind-unfolding experiences in themselves, but generally I expected those places to be different from what I was familiar with. Consequently I didn’t have any deeply-ingrained expectations for what those societies would be like, or for how people would behave there.

Here in Cape Verde it’s different. This is a society of mostly black people. And apparently 19+ years of living in Nigeria gave me this internalised intuition for how a society of mostly black people generally behaves.

So it’s surreal for me interacting with that society, and then having them mildly conflict with my expectations. For example I come across some random black Cape Verdean guy: In my head my brain has already prepared a template of what I should immediately expect from him, based on how my life experience around black people makes me interpret his visual impression.

And then he opens his mouth and begins to speak Portuguese. Portuguese is soooo different from anything I’ve ever personally heard black people speaking. It shakes up my brain a bit, having to superimpose a black face over the disorienting stream of alien sounds I’m hearing. It feels surreal having people here jar my expectations like that.

It’s like I’m hallucinating. Or I’m being pranked, and the Cape Verdean guy is just speaking Portuguese to weird me out.

It’s just startling in this stimulating, other-worldly way – like someone is passing a mild electric current through my body. Haha.

Hitching a ride to Santa Maria on the back of a lorry.

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The library is chill. Quiet.

I still get surprised by just how few people are on this island. At any given point you’re like a 15-minute walk away from being smack in the middle of the desert with no human being in sight. It’s crazy.

Right now I’m the only one in the library. Me and the librarian at her desk by the door. I think there’s someone seated in a corner by my right, but I don’t know for sure. The view is obstructed by a bunch of bookshelves.

I recently got in touch with a Biodiversity NGO at Santa Maria – the touristy town at the southernmost end of the island. Somehow I persuaded the Spanish Directors to give me a bunch of their Sea Turtle Nesting data, so I could carry out some AI/Machine Learning analysis on it. The aim is to uncover patterns/inferences which’ll be useful to them, so they paid me some money for it. That was great. I need money.

So now I’m here, chilling in this library surrounded by Portuguese books that are mostly unintelligible to me, sitting on a chair and with my things on a table, in an actual building with walls and a roof, connected to electricity and doing some stuff on my computer.

I like this vibe. Haha.

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End of Part 1.

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Image:

Chilling in the library.

Calheta Funda.

It’s morning.

The air is slightly cold. I can hear the muffled sound of ocean waves periodically crashing against the shingle beach not far away.

The ground is brown and dry. The desert sand shimmers in the bright Sal-island morning sun.

It’s a new day. I spent the night out in some strange concrete-block enclosement out here in the desert, off the island’s highway. It feels like a balcony, but on the ground floor. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.

It provided considerable shelter from the wind, so that was good. Rain practically never falls on Sal island, so I didn’t have to worry about a roof over my head.

I’m wearing my fancy rain jacket. The dark-green and brown one I bought at a thrift store in San Francisco. It has like ten different zippers. There are honestly zippers on this jacket I haven’t yet figured out how to use.

I’m actually not sure why I bought it – maybe I thought it would prove useful for winter in San Francisco. Maybe I thought it would snow or something. It didn’t, and I don’t think I used the jacket at all that winter.

It ended up becoming my camping jacket. During random night walks in SF, I would end up nestled up in the hills at Corona Heights- entranced by the interesting view of the city from above – the sparkly streetlights and the prominent visual outline of Market street.

Or snuggling up on a bench amidst interesting flowers at Golden Gate Park. The hooded rain jacket with endless zippers and pockets, proved immensely useful then.

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I’m walking along the shimmering brown desert sand, wondering how the day will unravel. I see a tent up in the distance.

What, a tent?

I thought I was the only one here.

I walk towards it, wondering what’s going on.

Hello!

It’s a cheerful-looking Caucasian man who looks like he’s in his forties. He’s rolling up some stuff around the tent.

We exchange a few pleasantries.

From what I can make of his significantly-accented English, he’s Polish- He and his friend sailed to Sal island (sailed, Wow). I’m not sure where he says they sailed from, but apparently they had a pretty thrilling journey via the ocean, and it wasn’t entirely smooth. Interesting stuff.

He had to have pitched his tent after I fell asleep last night – there was no one around when I got here.

We keep talking. There’s this book he’s very excited about – some guide book for travellers. “Reise Know-How” or something. He has the edition for Cabo Verde – Reise Know-How Cabo Verde something. Apparently it gives a comprehensive outline of interesting activities in Cabo Verde, for travellers. I flip through the book – I find the pictures and the graphics very interesting. It’s all in German though, so I can’t make much of it.

We talk some more as he packs up his stuff and prepares to leave. I’d say he’s a bit shorter than average, but his camping shoes look a little large – I find the look somewhat comical. Chatting excitedly while he prances about in his big shoes. His elation is contagious, and I’m smiling throughout.

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It’s a different day.

Night. It’s night. Night of a different day.

I’m headed back to Calheta Funda from Murdeira, where I went to get some supplies. The past couple of days have had their ups and downs. I found this really interesting small cave right by the ocean – just big enough for me to snuggle into. It felt really cool- curling up in a cave, surrounded by the numbing crashing of ocean waves, and staring out at the reflection of the moonlight in the water.

A few days ago I headed to Espargos to get some food supplies. All of my stuff was by the cave at the beach. Clothes, shoes, other stuff. It was to my utter dismay that I returned and realized that the tide had risen immensely in the hours I was gone.

My stuff was everywhere. My Vans sneakers were completely missing. I could only find one leg of my formal leather shoes. I had to walk dejectedly along the shoreline, rethinking my life decisions as I trudged along the black pebbles that populated the beach, picking up whatever of my belongings the ocean had heartlessly strewn about.

The tide rose and the ocean threw your stuff all over the place- some never to be seen again. Who do you get angry at? You can’t exactly begin to pump your fist at the indifferent ocean, can you?

As I head towards where I have my things, I come across a pickup truck. There are two people in it. They look like European men. From the company logo on the truck, I know the guys in it are a bunch of surfshop entrepreneurs from Santa Maria. Sal has got a number of great beaches, and so there’s the trend of surfing enthusiasts from Europe with access to capital, setting up surfing and kitesurfing schools for tourists.

As I walk by, I say hello to the surfer guys. We exchange pleasantries. The man in the driver’s seat is eating something from a bowl. He says his wife prepared it ahead of his road trip.

“Good wife right?” He looks up from his food and smiles at me.

I laugh.

We exchange a few more pleasantries as I head on my way.

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It’s a different day.

I just woke up. I’m looking around, wondering how this new day will unravel.

There’s someone staring at me. It’s a dark-skinned man. He looks suspicious. Like he’s wondering what to make of me.

I wave and say hello.

At some point I walk over to exchange a few sentences.

He’s Senegalese. Or Guinean. Or Gambian. Honestly I’m not sure.

But generally there’s a specific kind of problem I have with these kinds of people: They never understand what I’m doing. They never understand my life.

The idea of “camping by the beach” makes absolutely no sense to them.

They generally do not understand why anyone would spend the night outdoors, by choice. That’s just how the (non-Cape Verdean) African people here tend to think. I don’t know why.

I think another factor that makes things more confusing for them, is that I’m black. If they see a European person spending the night outdoors, they’ll probably think “Okay there’s just a white person doing white person stuff, nothing to see here”.

They see me doing that and they’re thinking “Hm, what is this person trying to do? Is he trying to break into a nearby building? Is he trying to bury a body? Is he trying to ambush passers-by? What could he possibly be doing there? I think I should call the Police, I do not understand what is happening.“

That is exactly the sort of misunderstanding that leads to me getting picked up by the police here. Officers at the Santa Maria station know me by name now. I alight at the station from their Police van, and the people inside are like “Oho, he’s here again”. Hah.

I’m conversing with the Senegalese/Guinean/Gambian looking guy. He works as a security guard in the area. As we talk, I see the suspicion on his face gradually melt away. He progressively warms up to me.

We keep talking. A lady walks up to us – she’s asking him some questions and asking about me. There are a bunch of kids behind her. And a dog.

He says she’s his brother’s wife. He probably doesn’t mean literal brother. Maybe “fellow Senegalese/Guinean/Gambian person”. Probably.

He offers me some food. He’s eating bread and something.

We keep talking. I take a bunch of selfies with the lady and the kids and the dog.

Thankfully there’s no misunderstanding today.

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Image: Somewhere in the desert of Sal island.

A Carnivorous Beach/Meeting Aurelio.

For accompanying (interesting Cape Verdean) music, click play 🙂

Badia, by Mayra Andrade.

I am drifting through the desert of Terra Boa, on Ilha do Sal- one of the islands comprising the archipelago of Cape Verde.

At this current time, I do not know the name of this desert region. I do not know it is called Terra Boa- not yet. In about ten months, my apartment at Santa Maria will get burgled, and I will be forced to relocate.

I will move into a remote house located in the middle of the desert- in the middle of this desert. My neighbour’s name will be Timothy. He will pronounce it something like: “Timurtiu”. Probably something to do with the Portuguese accent- I will find it amusing.

About half of Timurtiu‘s right index finger will be missing. I will wonder how that happened. I will not live at the remote house in Terra Boa long enough to get to ask him how he lost half of a finger.

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I am drifting through the desert of Terra Boa.

I’ve been having some strange thoughts flowing into my head recently. A while back, I was at a store. There was this bicycle for sale outside. At some point I found myself thinking:

Hmm, what if I spend the last few euros I have in my account on purchasing this bike, and then ride out far into the desert?

There’s this mountain visible in the distance. I could ride out to the base of the mountain and just like chill there for a while.

Hm, how do you get food out in the desert? Water? Shelter?

I don’t know, I don’t care. Let’s just buy the bicycle and get the hell out and into the extremely inviting desert.

I didn’t buy the bicycle. I later thought against that plan.

I stop to sit under a tree.

Except it’s not really a tree- its this very sparse shrub-like piece of vegetation that looks like it would be more like a tree if it wasn’t out here in the desert.

As I sit here on the floor, I soak in the view of the city. From the outside.

As I sit here and watch, a new awareness dawns on me very heavily:

I realize, experientially rather than just cognitively, that buildings are a human construct.

Initially there was just land in this place. Just land. Desert land.

And then at some point some human beings began to move about. They erected buildings with concrete blocks for shelter. They built roads, they set up electricity– They generally put together the structures and amenities that have now come to be perceived as an intrinsic foundation for, and a non-negotiable shaper of, human existence.

But I’m here right now, sitting under a tree in the desert, looking at the distant colony of humans up ahead.

I am not dead. I am alive. And I believe I am alright- I am okay. I am generally healthy, and not in any immediate danger.

Hm, so it is actually possible to exist outside all of these human-introduced conceptual and physical structures, and still be like alright? Hmmm!!

I take some more time to soak in this realization.

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I am drifting through the desert of Terra Boa.

At some point I come upon a shelter. There is a man in the garden, tending to some plants. I call out to him, and we begin to talk.

His name is Aurelio. He is a considerably friendly guy. He has a farm of corn and beans at the back. Corn is used to make Cachupa- Cape Verde’s flagship meal. Beans is called Feijão. Feijão pedra.

Hmmmm. Feijão. Feijão pedra.

We keep talking. He talks about São Vicente- a different island in the Cape Verdean archipelago. Says parties are thrown there all the time. Party is Festa. I’m listening and learning with excitement.

Sao Vicente. Festa. Alright. Alright, I see what you’re saying.

We keep talking. We talk about me. I tell him about my studies in the US. He mentions his son who he sent to the US for studies. He talks about his son with pride.

We keep talking.

He asks me where I’m headed. I hint vaguely in the direction of the general desert area beyond us.

I mention to him the mountains I’ve climbed so far. He mentions that he also repeatedly climbed a number of mountains. When he was younger. I’ll spend some more time thinking about that clause. I’ll spend more time thinking about age. About age, and aging- and what that does to people.

He talks to me about Fiura. Fiura is the deserted shingle beach at the northernmost end of the island of Sal. Aurelio says people die there every year. Drown. People drown there every year. He says it’s almost like a part of the calendar.

People die at Fiura every year. People will die this year- it is expected.

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In a few months, I will find myself at Fiura. I will head out of Espargos for a walk, and find myself at the very end of the island.

The beach there will be dull and misty and desolate and full of lonely black pebbles and pieces of string and net and wood, washed ashore from the fishermen’s boats. There will be a number of crumbling wooden shelters at the shore, under which fishermen probably sat during fishing breaks, for shelter from the sun.

There will be a rectangular hole in the ground which looks like a grave. I will lie in there- inside the hole, curious what life feels like from that perspective.

Standing ankle deep in the notably rough waters of Fiura, I will realize I never had the time to properly grieve a painful event involving a sibling Nigeria, until that very moment. Life in the past year was a whirlwind of classes and assignments and internship tasks and discount flights. The autonomous expression of grief was repressed and delayed by all of that.

The belligerent waves will astonish me. The waves at Fiura will be notably more rambunctious than any I have seen on the island. I will wonder what exactly it is that kills people at Fiura.

Is it the waves? The menacingly unruly waves? Or the pebbles? The black, suspiciously mute pebbles? Are they devilishly slippery? How much danger am I in?

Or is it something else? Something I’m not seeing? Something I am not thinking about? Something I do not know?

I met a man from Poland camping in a tent one morning at Calheta Funda. He said he arrived Cape Verde by boat. Did he come through Fiura? Was this where he came through?

Palmeira is Sal’s shipping port. Palmeira is at the western end of Sal. I will not know that at the time. I will not have visited Palmeira then.

I will spend a considerable amount of time at Fiura.

At some point I will realize I have to head back. Nightfall will be approaching. I will turn away from the ocean and begin to trek the desert miles ahead, on my way back to the man-made colony of humans.

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I keep talking with Aurelio.

At some point he shows me a dining room at the backyard. The extended family has dinners here every once in a while. I think maybe I’ll come along some time.

He works at Palmeira. He is the manager of the Oil terminal there. The gasoline and diesel and oil and brought in by the arriving ships, are stored at the terminal, prior to distribution around the island.

He says it’s a considerably demanding job.

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In a few months I’ll be at Palmeira. I’ll remember a man I met at Terra Boa who said he worked at the oil terminal. I’ll visit the facility. The security guard will be unwilling to pay me serious attention. His disposition will change at the mention of Aurelio’s name.

At some point I’ll be let in.

Aurelio will be very happy to see me, and he’ll show me around his workplace.

It will be an interesting day at Palmeira.

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Image: Another beach, another country.