Exploring Santiago: Northwards To Tarrafal

Language is interesting here: the tongue spoken by Cape Verdeans is known as Krioli, but due to the variations between the different versions spoken on each of the islands, there is not really an accepted definitive strain, either written or spoken. It certainly sounds more than a little unfamiliar to us, and even the Portuguese spoken here is uncharacteristically choppy to our ears. Fortunately, a degree of English is understood and, with the majority of the population being of Senegalese descent, French is pretty widespread. I think you could say we’re talking Babel most of the time. Makes a change from Drivel, I suppose.

Monday morning we collect our nicely shiny hire car, leave Praia behind and head northwards up the island, in the process making Cape Verde the 25th country in which we’ve driven – and what a spectacular drive it turns out to be. To make our way across Santiago from south to north, it’s necessary to cross two mountain ranges, the Pico d’Antonia and the Serra Malagueta, each of which offers dramatic views as we make our way along the quiet roads.

Green canyons drop below soaring rugged mountains, heavily farmed slopes filled with the parched gold of post-season maize and the verdant shades of fruit and veg decorate the levels between the two. Stop and stare and you can pick out the tiny shapes of farm workers down amongst the foliage, toiling beneath the midday sun. Mountain villages are alive with noisy schoolchildren, pick up trucks move produce and people from field to town and vice versa. Cattle and goats graze at the roadside.

At one stopping point somewhere beyond the market town of Assomada, looking down into the valleys, we suddenly realise that we are surrounded by giant black and yellow spiders hanging on webs resembling tennis court nets. Research tells us these are golden orb silk weavers, and wow there are literally hundreds suspended seemingly in mid air just waiting for the next victim to fall into their huge trap. These guys are amazing: they construct these giant webs in one session, working up to eight hours at a time to spin webs which in relation to their own body size is a silk mesh with the dimensions of a football pitch.

The beautifully positioned coastal town of Tarrafal comes into view just as we reach the top of the Serra Malagueta, its buildings wrapped around the shore between the soaring mountains and the Atlantic. Even from a distance we get a sense of excitement as we descend towards what looks like a town in a great location, and, once here, we aren’t disappointed; jet black volcanic rock meets deep blue sea fringed by pure white surf which tosses and flings itself into the waiting rock pools. The sun’s rays illuminate the town yet at the same time heavy dark cloud drapes the peaks of the mountains. It’s a spectacular introduction.

And then, tucked into the sides of the inlet which are Tarrafal’s outstretched arms, are three perfect horseshoe coves of golden sand where the waves roll in and locals join visitors in a game of beach volleyball. Here the black rock of lava becomes the golden tinge of sandstone on the cliffs which climb up behind and around the coves. Sipping a beer or two beneath the palms of the beach bar, we get the distinct feeling that Tarrafal is something of an unspoilt gem – perhaps just a bit too difficult to reach to ever become overblown, just far enough away from everywhere to retain its character.

Wide cobbled streets thread routes between houses, people move around with a languid, untroubled gait, chickens and dogs cross the road as if wildlife holds sway over the motor car. Music drifts through town as the sun goes down and all the while the throb and boom of the Atlantic waves underpins the soundtrack. Everything seems gentle, low key, perfectly in keeping with the feel of an unspoilt paradise where life simply ambles on, regardless. No stress, as the locals are prone to say.

Every day as midday approaches, the pageant which is Tarrafal’s focal point gets underway and the waterfront starts to buzz with activity as the fishing boats return from their morning sortie. It’s a terrific sight and wonderful to be part of. Gangs of guys haul the boats up the sand by hand one boat at a time, while the women of the village gather round, chattering excitedly and peering over the sides of the boats to view the catch within. The colour, buzz and animation of the next couple of hours is utterly enthralling.

One boat brings in a collection of huge tuna, another has no floor space left as dozens of what we think are grouper, snapper and wahoo line the bottom of the craft. Activity levels are high: women fill buckets with fish and sit down on the beach to start descaling or maybe filleting, guys with giant machetes begin to cut up the largest tuna, others carry the nets to the back of the beach to first unravel and then leave to dry. It’s the job of some to simply scoop bucketfuls of sea water from the boats and return it from whence it came.

Dancing suddenly provides humour in the middle of the serious business of processing the catch, raucous laughter breaks out as one guy shakes his ass and grabs partners at random. For a few moments, smiles beam and voices sing, before everybody returns to the job in hand. This whole scene, the whole pageant of hauling in the catch is, from beginning to end, a fascinating, endearing sight, yet one which is obviously a daily ritual – and is all the more engaging for that one simple fact.

It’s beginning to feel like a long time since we ate meat. The fish, particularly tuna, is so tasty and juicy, and – obviously – so fresh, that it’s hard to choose anything else from the menus. Fried moray eel as an appetiser? Goose barnacles in tomato sauce? Limpet stew? Why opt for anything as mundane as chicken when exciting options such as these are available.

We awake each morning to the sound of cockerels accompanying the rolling waves, the street outside soon full of children on the way to school and ladies carrying produce to and from the market. Days pass by at a certain pace in Tarrafal, much of the life of local folk feels time honoured and largely unaltered by progress. It is a calm, untroubled place. No stress, indeed. But then there’s a certain consistency here: the shortest days of the year have only two hours less daylight than the longest, the average temperature of the warmest month is only a few degrees higher than the coolest. Maybe such things play a part in creating this rather lovely vibe of contentment.

Tomorrow we embark on a hike in the Serra Malagueta to explore the wonderful mountain terrain of the north of Santiago. We thought this may entail an early start, but our guide says to meet in the square at 9am.

“That will be early enough”, he says, then adding “No stress”, just to remind us exactly where we are.