We’re sipping on beer, the two of us.
Out on the patio of an interesting bistro at Santa Maria.
I’m sipping on beer he bought for me.
“Unlike you, I have a wife and a daughter in Germany.”
“You, you’re free. You’re free to do whatever you want. With whoever you want.”
“Me, I’m not.”
I do not quite agree with him.
I mean, he has a point- he definitely does. But I don’t feel free.
I’m not. Free.
I’m not free.
I’ve spent the past few months reeling in the frustratingly-boundless anguish of heartbreak.
It’s been a whirlwind of emotions.
Anger. Frustration. Hate. Sadness. Hurt.
I don’t have a wife and a daughter in Germany, but I’m not free. I’m not. Free.
I’m not free.
We’re talking about immigrants. Immigrants in Germany.
I recently read a news article about a batch of new African immigrants, who were setting off a flurry of sexual harassment cases somewhere in Germany- I think it was Berlin.
Those immigrants seemed like pretty problematic people to me.
He has a different take on immigrants.
He says the country needs them.
He’s a landscaper.
He says he doesn’t have enough workers at his company. He needs the ample labour that these immigrants have to offer, but the government has been slow in providing them with work permits. He says it’s very bad for his business.
We keep sipping on beer.
It’s been difficult getting internet.
I don’t have a steady income from which I can purchase mobile internet plans on a periodic basis. So I use restaurant Wifi networks.
I initially visit the restaurant as a legitimate guest.
I buy stuff. And then I obtain the password.
My subsequent visits are usually less legitimate.
I usually just hang around the place, nibbling on the fringes of their Wifi for free.
There’s this hotel at the major Santa Maria roundabout. Very close to the Pirata club.
Some guy at the reception gave me the Wifi password earlier in the year.
I spend at least an hour everyday at the open-air mini- street gym right across the road.
And no, I haven’t been trying to beef up my calf muscles.
I usually just laze around the equipment while I use their wifi on my phone.
Check emails, check social media, send out professional applications, go through disheartening rejection emails, adjust to the sour new reality of dashed hopes, all the while pretending to use the swinging leg-exercise thing.
We’re still sipping on beer.
Me and the German landscaper.
This restaurant was set up by this cool guy from somewhere in the UK. He and his wife. They both moved to Cape Verde from the UK. Moved to Sal and set up the restaurant. They recently had a baby.
I was asking him a few questions the other day. I asked him how different life was, with a baby. He said his energy level had increased for some reason. That he just felt a lot more energetic all of a sudden.
I initially got the password on a legitimate visit to the restaurant. Used it on a number of subsequent less-legit visits. And then at some point the password stopped working.
On another legitimate visit, I realised it had been changed.
I confidently asked for the new password over some Spaghetti Bolognese.
The next time the password was changed, I was more equipped to adapt to the situation: I had figured out a valuable pattern in the UK guy’s choice of passwords.
It was usually the name of the restaurant, and then three digits.
I was like Great, easy.
I wrote a Python script to generate a list of three digit numbers from 000 to 999. I appended these numbers to the name of the restaurant and then employed a command line Wifi password cracking tool to figure out what the new password combination was.
I think the tool was Aircrack-ng or something. Used to be part of the Kali Linux package and stuff. There was a way to set it up on the MacOS terminal.
Like, UK guy I understand you need to limit your restaurant’s internet usage- but I’m a severely impecunious student on a gap year from college and I need to check my emails.
Please bear with me.
Plus, it’s not like I don’t visit as a legitimate guest every now and then. 🙂
There’s this other country-wide wifi. Cabocom Wifi.
One very auspicious night I attempted to log into the network, and for some strange reason it didn’t request a password from me.
It just logged me in.
I took a few minutes to give profuse thanks to the Persian god of good fortune, before I then proceeded to rapaciously download a number of TV shows I had been looking forward to.
And it wasn’t just a one-time thing. It usually just works.
I don’t complain.
I don’t complain at all.
Praise be to the Persian god of good fortune.
Image: Somewhere in Santa Maria.