A short history lesson on the Cape Verde Islands according to
our guidebook: These islands, off the west coast of Africa, were uninhabited
when discovered in the late 1400’s by the Portuguese and largely unpopulated
until the 1800’s. They did OK for a while as a way point for the slavery trade,
but then that was abolished, then as a way point for whaling, also abolished,
then as a coal bunkering stop, but then ships stopped using coal… now there is
a bit of agriculture that goes on, bananas and such, and the government is
considering getting into the tourist industry, but the main source of income is
currently foreign aid and this is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future.
Sunday morning I wake up early and decide to go for a walk
while it is still cool out. I have my camera and my laptop in my backpack, $5
and my marina key in my pocket. As I walk the streets of the town I believe the
guidebook comment about foreign aid, this is undoubtedly a third world country.
I remember Kirkland Lake when I lived there, several decades after the last
mine had closed down, when the city started bulldozing the many abandoned
houses scattered throughout the town believing that empty lots were less likely
to shelter criminal activity than empty buildings. I had thought that was a
poor community. Here, in a city of 60,000, the poverty hangs thick in the air.
Buildings are falling down, rubble piles everywhere, collections of garbage and
unemployed young men littering the streets, sad small scruffy dogs lying about
devoid of hope.
I wonder, as I walk, how safe I am, here, on my own, in this
city. At first I cannot bear to take out my camera, it seems rude to take
pictures of old women sitting forlornly on street corners trying to sell
mangoes, old men lying on park benches… the only decent clothing worn I see is
by those in work uniforms. I decide to head up one of the hills to get a view
of the city from above. The cobble stone streets become dirt roads as I go
upwards and then uneven rocky paths wide enough for one to walk switch-backing
back and forth between cinderblock houses with corrugated iron roofs. Down in
the city proper were occasional apartments I could imagine living in but up
higher there are only huts, hovels, and shacks. I cannot imagine anyone living
in these but the voices from within and the laundry hanging outside demonstrate
their occupation. Again I wonder about my safety. I have pulled out my camera,
red and shiny, which cost me less than a day’s pay, but I wonder how many days
pay it would be worth to those who live there. Certainly it would be worth
stealing. Murdering for? I have no idea. I nod and smile to everyone I see. The
men nod back. I offer to shake hands whenever possible (and vow to wash my
hands well when I get back to the boat). The most common comment made to me, in
French, mostly by younger men who have tried Spanish first and realized I speak
none, is ‘Ca Va?’, it sounds a question and I take it to mean ‘Are you OK?’
which seems reassuring. The women are less forthcoming.
At last I get my break. I am taking a photo of a rooster on
one of the dirt paths that serve as roads when a young boy walks by. I ask – in
sign language – if I can take his picture. He says no. I ask again. Still no.
Then a girl comes over and allows me to take her photo. Both of them love to
see it. Before long there are four kids chattering away in Spanish. I show the
oldest boy how to use my camera and he takes endless pictures of the others, of
anyone else who walks by, of the view from the corner. I wonder if they have
e-mail, if I can send them copies, but I doubt they have running water, and without
a common language there is no way to ask. (The little girl in the photo lives
in the middle one of the three houses seen in the background of the same picture.)
After half an hour I leave but as I walk back downhill I take a photo record of
my winding path so that if I can get prints made for the kids I can find my way
back to deliver them.
