There's a world of difference between truth and facts.
Facts can obscure truth.
-Maya Angelou-
('I know Why the Caged Bird Sings,', 1970)
The anchorage in Vueltas or Valle Gran Rey was spectacular and offered the clearest water yet. On the downside, the Atlantic swell wrapped itself around the island and kept up a steady roll.
Our last port in the Canaries deserves a little space here. You see, after a week in San Sebastian (La Gomera) we decided on one more port, Valle Gran Rey. We had been hanging out with Sym and Amy from Sy Quartermoon and with Simon and Lindsey from Sy Doris. All three of us mozied on around the corner, 15 miles to the spectacular cliffs, dark volcanic sand and clear water. There was naked people on the beach and - as our german rasta-friend Hannnes informed us - a yoga/meditation centre plus a few remaining hippies still living under the cliffs. Finally it was socially acceptable for me to jump in naked!
Valle Gran Rey used to be a hippie-haven in the past. Now it seems popular with Germans. Perhaps the old flower-power oldies come here to see their beach-born children who are now approcaching middle-age and live here, managing their small businesses and shops. Tie-dyed clothes, hand-made jewlery, astrology services, organic cafes etc. were dotting the beautiful narrow streets of the sleepy village. In some way, perhaps it was still a hippie-haven. Canaries had not made much of an impression on me, with the nature being almost dead and beaches crowded with sunburnt tourists and highrising hotels. But if I was forced to live in the Canary Islands, It would have to be Valle Gran Rey.
The pressure was on to make a move. We were using up our veg and water, not knowing what the facilities were like in Cape Verdes. (If I had done my homework, I would have known that Mindelo is a town of 70 000 people and everything is available there) We decided on a 6 December departure, but not before a short ritual for the Finnish independence day. I hoisted the full size flag and assumed my original citizenship for a while. (I am a born-again Australian...) Jean Sibelius provided the emotional straight-to-any-Finns-heart-music. The piece of course is called Finlandia and we blasted it out from the speakers outside, for the whole anchorage. It went straight to my heart and tears welled up.
Into the Tropics!
Time to go. Into the blue shit. We got what we wanted: a few easy days with not much swell. Later both the wind and the swell picked up, giving us a good fast voyage. With one reef in the main and genoa out as much as required, we managed to do what I thought was undoable with Aliisa: two days straigt with 140Nm each. Suprisingly not, Annina did never really recover and felt a bit off for the whole trip. More disappointingly, I was much the same. It normally takes me just 24 hours to get into it but now I was continuously tired and uninterested in doing anything.
Two hours of playing with the old wind vane did not help. She was steering though, making max turns to port, followed by a max turn to starboard, followed by... We put our faith in Simrad.
The extra 150 litres of water we had, decided to depart the bladder, pissing itself into the bilge. I blamed the bag at first, but more likely the rough seas made it rub against Aliisa's bilge, which has a rough surface. There was no other problems and we arrived in Mindelo after 6 days and 6 hours at sea. (800Nm) The welcome was blustery.
Having a wash at sea poses challenges only if you're sea sick and tired. Now - finally having reached the latitude for it, all you need is bucketloads of water from the ocean and quick fresh water rinse. Cockpit floor works best when the motion doesn't allow for deck use. Ansku having a wash on our day of arriving to Cabo Verde.
Mother Nature's great air gun was being loaded with dust-laden north-easterly bullets from the back of Sao de Vicente. The valleys and gulleys acted like barrels, shooting down over the harbour at 50 knots. Anchoring was not a breeze, but a gale. The seas had built up outside too but the acceleration in the harbour was a good double the actual wind. The old CQR grabbed hold and though the chain was as straight as a piece of railway track, we were secure. Tops were blown off the tiny whitecaps covering the harbour. It was time for a good sleep.
As soon we anchored, we met Adilson, or Dy - as he called himself. I expected him to glue himself to us and become our agent for everything, like they tend to do in Madagascar. But no, Dy was civil and friendly, offered his help and services and then left us alone. We met Symian and Amy again and started sharing their dinghy to shore. The new expensive marina - built by a German guy called Kai Brossman - allowed dinghy landing for 3 euros per day. We had to bite the bullet and pay, as the beach option would have cost even more.
Look Mom, money!
Didi assured me that his scars were from a bicycle accident, not fighting. He asked me to buy some milk powder for his twin baby girls. The wish was modest and honorable but I once in the supermarket, I had to bargain a bit to reduce the gift from a 5kg tin to a 1kg bag.
The people were friendly, very friendly. But as always in a country of low development, low income and high unemployment, the friendliness takes a twisted form towards a foreign yachtsman. The average income for a worker is perhaps around 25€ per week but the prices of goods - almost all imported - is up in the european level. As I walked in the city, a 4-year-old boy was running circles around his rather well-to-do looking, well dressed parents. I smiled at him and as our eyes met, the little boy turned to his mother, pointed his finger at me said: "money". He didn't ask for money, but perhaps my white skin was a symbol for it, as good as money on two legs, and he pointed at me just like he would point to a vehicle and yell out: "a truck!"
Moments later a young man from Ghana approached me and said in very clear and proper english: "Look, you guys can go anywhere with your yachts. Could you please take me somewhere, anywhere where I can find work. I would really like to work." I didn't take him onboard, but I felt the sting in my heart and went home to shed a tear over the inequalities of the world.
Live music in the bar called Susanne's. The music reflected in some ways my experience of Cabo Verde. The rythm was always happy and upbeat, but the melody was driven by minors, not majors. Like a sad tune played happily.
Dy and the bar girl, sorry I can't remember her name. Susanne's bar was a lively place and a genuine piece of Cabo Verde reality. The people of CV were delightfully friendly and fun loving and the feel of the place was a mix of Portugese and African (like the people themselve) with a Caribbean flavour. (I suppose the "Caribbean flavour" is really the "African flavour"...)
On the jetty, outside the secure gates of the new marina, a bunch of guys were always looking for a chance to make a buck, befriend a yachtie and maybe get a chance to eat some crumbs from the traditional American success formula based on the trickle-down-effect. I understand the logic of it, but I don't really dig the image of an unemployed, disavantaged youth eating crumbs that fall from the mouths of over-fed fat millionaires. Trickle down? Why should three quarters of the planet live of the crumbs that trickle from the top 2 percent? Why should anyone live from a trickle. We want full flow! I wondered if I really earned all my opportunities in life or did I win the lottery the moment I crawled out of my mother's womb in Helsinki, Finland?
Eversince I was a little boy I've had a strange over-developed sense of sadness towards other people's misfortune or inequality. It bothers me, particularly when I come to countries where I suddenly turn from a financially challenged bare-footed grotty yachtie with a "donate" button on his website and living his life in a 32ft rusty steel tub, into a representative of the top white elite travelling the world on their yachts.
Mindelo inner Harbour with town at the back
I continue to save the world as much as I can. I've given away a carton of cigarettes one box at a time and our leaking water tank (bladder). I keep befriending everyone and then let them take me for a ride. If they screw me just a little, that's fine. I accept that. After the big clean-up in PNG seven years ago, I promised myself not to let it affect the way I deal with people. I refuse to get cynical, I refuse to lock myself in the boat, or even lock the boat and expect the worst in every person. In fact, my default is that every guy is a good guy. And that's how it is. Every guy IS a good guy.
It took us five days to find the Immigration guys. The door was locked and while the painter told us to come back tomorrow, next day even he was gone. When we got in, I took no chances and asked him to clear us in and out at once. No problems, he said but had one question before I left: "How much is your watch worth in euros?" (Suunto Yachtsman) I walked out embarrassed.
Mindelo broke my naiíve idea of an undeveloped Cape Verde. Cars filled the streets and nearly everything was available, at a price. The number of police officers was both comforting and alarming. Why do we need so many of them...?
Shut up, please!
We hit the town with Symian and Any, starting from Club Nautico and then a courtyard open-air bar with fantastic local live music. Band members were sitting around one table, singing and playing. Their friends, perhaps other members of the group, came and joined in or went home, while the core group kept playing. (I'll put in a video sample once I get a real internet connection.) A local guy who stood behind us for some time, started chatting. I gave him a small bottle of beer, though he never asked for anything. Encouraged by our gesture, he asked if I could buy him some milk powder. He had told us earlier that he has twin baby girls at home. I didn't know how to refuse such a request and procedded down to the corner shop with him.
We moved on to have dinner in what turned out to be a tourist place. Some old dude turned up with a three piece band and flamboyantly played western tunes for the audience of diners. Sym, Amy, Annina and I were enjoying ourselves to the max and a grumpy old german from the table behind us approached us: "Can you keep it quiet please, we're trying to have conversation there..." Later, when the music started, another table told us to be quiet. In the meantime the poor band was trying to fire things up get people into the groove. Fucking hell, you just can't fire up a crowd of boring old farts. Finally the owner came to us and asked us to please have fun and laugh as loud and as much as we like. And we did. Until we saw the bill.
The last place was Susanne's, an unmarked door in a back alley, revealing a dusty but tidy little joint of shady-looking locals plus a few young french yachties in the know. This was cheap and good, lasted all night and included both arguing and hugging. Back in Aliisa we carried on with our yachtie friends. The next day was a write-off, but we managed to pull anchor and move in to a mooring in the inner harbour. (Thanks Adilson and Manfred) The wind was still belting down the hills. Back in town, a few days later, everyone acted as they knew me. One guy approached me saying: "Remember the stuff I showed you yesterday?". I told him we were not in town at all yesterday and have no idea what his talking about. "Aahh... sorry maaan. I mistook you for someone else. See, you europeans all look the same!" We laughed, shook hands and he went his way.
Cabo Verde covered in mist. A sunny afternoon in Mindelo harbour is plagued by fine Saharan sand, making the landscape eerie and dreamy. Oh, and robbing us from the important amps from the solar panels.
Christmas is in the air. But not in my mind. I've always done my best to avoid the whole thing but there is no escape. Decorations are all up in palm trees and public buildings.
Even Aliisa has Xmas lights! A night of good food, good company and a game of bi-lingual Trivial Pursuit goes down well, though. (Symian and Amy in Aliisa)
Mindelo - a town of 70 000 people - was a vibrant place, offering all product and services one would imagine. In the main markets the quality of vegetables was quite good.
Time to go
Although the stamps in our passports record a visit of only one day, we managed to enjoy Mindelo for a week. We got our moneys worth, I think. During the last shopping spree, we grabbed some basic veges, bread and soft drinks. A young boy hanging out infront of the shop scored a 1kg bag of milk powder. "The T-shirt man" at the jetty scored another 5 euros and a packet of smokes - in return for a T-shirt and a necklace. I grabbed a small wooden instrument from another street vendor for 10 euros and when I turned back to give him one of my last packets of smokes, he jumped up and down, yelling: "I'm happy!". I was happy for making someone happy.
We had one more dinner onboard Quartermoon with Sym and Amy. Gintonics and sparkling wine. We exchanged Xmas presents, one of their cats walked over a candle and set himself in flames. (!!!) Poor Wolverine disappeared into the cockpit, leaving behind a cloud of smoke. (He's allright now...) Back in town, the Xmas lights were flashing and loud local music was blasting out from somewhere. We had cleared in and out (conveniently all in one day, in the middle of our stay) and Annina had prepared enough food for a few days. Weather was looking good for the first two days and then a bit blustery and possibly rainy. More about that in the Atlantic updates.
Catchya!
