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A young girl cartwheels along the pier, sandy hands and feet spinning against a cloudless blue sky.
A beach vendor vies for my attention, unravelling a sarong on the wooden deck. It’s stuffed with shell necklaces, woven purses and turtle fridge magnets.
‘Come see my shop’, he says. ‘I don’t pay rent.’ I give an apologetic shake of my head. ‘No stress’, he smiles, offering me a fist bump. Cape Verde’s laid-back greeting.
It’s my first day on Sal, one of 10 volcanic islands that make up this archipelago off the west coast of Africa. With azure waves lapping soft golden sands and year-round sunshine, it’s easy to see why it's becoming a popular winter sun destination.
Direct flights take less than six hours, cost as little as £350 return, and there’s no jet lag. You simply fly towards the Canaries and keep going. Indeed, Tui and easyJet both launched new routes to the islands earlier this year. And their Cape Verde package holidays offer an array of all-inclusive options with stays in brands such as Riu, Melia and Hilton.
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But, beyond the gated all-inclusive resorts, lies a vibrant island with a seductively relaxed personality. The pier at Santa Maria, Sal’s tourist mecca, is the perfect place to take it in.
A huge chunk of it washed away during a tropical storm last October. Now every remaining square inch is amiably jostled over by hair braiders, souvenir sellers and tour guides.
A man, pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with freshly caught tuna, weaves around them all. Not only is the daily haul brought here, but it’s also cleaned, gutted and filleted on the spot before being sold on to local markets and restaurants.
After a caiprinha at Beach Bar Ola Brasil (€5) – blended with national spirit, grogue, distilled from sugar cane – I go on a seafood hunt. The mix of locals and tourists standing in line outside Café Criolo strikes me as a good sign.
I don’t have to wait long before I’m seated in the humble shack-like joint, with dried pufferfish hanging from the awning. Cachupa is a favourite here, the dish of Cape Verde – a hearty slow-cooked stew of corn, beans, sweet potato, cassava and meat. But I’ve heard that percebes (goose barnacles) are a rare delicacy.
My waiter presents them with a flourish, and I prod one, my cheeks reddening. A long, rubbery dark stem (resembling a goose neck) tapers down to a claw-like, almost reptilian, foot, still covered in globs of algae. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
Sheepishly, I beckon the waiter back. ‘What do I do with them?’, I whisper. ‘Like this, he says, picking one up and twisting off a ‘foot’. He then peels back the skin to reveal lobster-like flesh.
I do the same and get a face full of seaspray. But I’m rewarded with my first morsel: briny, sweet and surprisingly tender – as close to tasting the ocean as you can get.
Percebes thrive on rocks that are slammed by the fiercest, frothiest waves. Those wishing to harvest them need guts and skill to avoid being swept away, which is why, elsewhere, a kg typically costs between €100 and €200. Here, I pay just €9 for a huge bowl.
Eighteen miles long and just seven miles wide, Sal – ringed by pristine coastline – may be the archetypal paradise now, but for three centuries Cape Verde was the centre of the transatlantic slave trade.
Uninhabited when first discovered by Portuguese explorers in the 15th century, its location saw millions of West Africans put to work on sugarcane and cotton plantations here, or sold on to ships sailing to the Americas.
Cape Verde eventually gained its independence in 1975, but the identity of the islands remains indelibly shaped by its history. It’s a unique blend of Portuguese and African influences – just like the Cape Verdean Creole most commonly spoken on the streets (although the official language is Portuguese).
The same clash of cultures is plain to see that evening on Santa Maria’s main street – a jumble of colonial low-rise buildings, their facades painted in sunny yellows, bubblegum pinks and sky blues.
Drum shops and reggae bars give way to Mediterranean-style bistro tables, spilling out onto cobbled pavements.
I stop for dinner at Chez Pastis, a cosy cave-like stone restaurant with just eight tables. The ‘roof’ is a canopy of twisted tree branches, festooned with fairy lights.
The occasional leaf flutters onto my table as I tuck into a warm octopus salad (€15), rich with garlic and earthy olive oil. Here, 1970s dinner party favourite Mateus Rosé is experiencing a renaissance.
It’s dark when I re-emerge, and almost every bar pulsates with the thrum of live music. A crowd has gathered on a street corner to watch a guitarist and drummer. A waitress pauses serving drinks to shake her hips and stamp her feet to the fast, energetic beat.
This is funaná, the forbidden music of Cape Verde. These typically accordion-driven melodies were created by locals as a raw, rebellious expression of African identity and were once banned by colonial rulers.
Morna, equally popular, is a melancholic, nostalgic sound influenced by Portuguese Fado. These ‘Cape Verdean blues’ were made famous by the late Cesária Évora – the ‘barefoot diva’ known for her rich, haunting voice.
Her wistful, softly smiling face is plastered on everything from souvenir beach bags to painted murals on whitewashed walls.
Santa Maria may be a hive of activity, but the best way to experience Sal is on a full-day island tour (Sodade Tours booked through Get Your Guide, £23). Ismael, my tour guide, arrives at my hotel promptly at 9am (Cape Verdeans are, I was told, late for everything).
Still, I’m a little taken aback by our mode of transport: a rustic pick-up truck.‘Front or back?’ Ismael grins as I check the booking details on my phone. Yes, it clearly says minibus. Still, I decide to embrace the adventure. I shrug, using the bumper as a leg up. I pick a spot on one of the two benches running the length of the cargo box and slather myself in suncream.
Ismael picks up two families, and I see the same flicker of surprise (or faint horror) on every face, with most choosing to buckle themselves up inside. From my seat, we’re soon bumping along the unpaved road, shoulder to sticky shoulder, gazing at the view.
After a couple of photo stops, we reach the Terra Boa desert, kicking up a cloud of dust as we go. A lone shrub wears the dent of the strong winds. Cabo Verde (or green cape) is somewhat of a misnomer when it comes to Sal: an arid moonscape.
You’ll find fertile, lush green peaks on islands Brava and Santo Antão – but island hopping in Cape Verde usually involves flying. Ferries are infrequent and unreliable due to the rough seas.
Eventually, we pass through a shanty town: makeshift houses haphazardly assembled from breeze blocks, corrugated iron and shredded tarpaulin. Abandoned, rusted cars litter the baked earth. These families can’t afford electricity or running water.
We stop to admire a lagoon on the horizon, a shimmer of clear water bleeding into the sky. Except when we drive towards it, there is nothing but a flat, sandy plain.
I blink with surprise. It’s a mirage: the refraction of light, through layers of hot air, creating the illusion of water. A reminder that not everything is as it seems in Cape Verde.
The Blue Eye of Buracona (€3 entry) brings more mystery. I perch on a rocky outcrop and peer into the mouth of a 25-metre vertical sea cave carved by molten lava. In the middle of the day, the sunlight penetrates at the perfect angle to turn the underwater floor a brilliant sapphire.
It looks like an eye gleaming back at you – but only if it’s sunny. Otherwise, the illusion is lost to a dark ocean swirl.
There are no apparitions when we visit Parda Bay after a lunch stop in the colourful capital, Espargos. Here, the rocky shallows offer a safe haven for baby lemon sharks. I enter the sea and wade until I’m waist-deep, with nothing to protect me but a pair of Crocs.
My guide risks his fingers by slapping small fish against the surface of the water. It’s glass-clear and bath-warm – the sun heating the black volcanic rock on the seabed. No wonder the sharks like it.
The Jaws theme tune is playing on a loop inside my head when it comes: the first flick of a tail fin. The pup propels itself towards my bare legs with a dead-eyed stare and I hold my breath. Its silhouette: so terror-inducingly familiar but shrunk down to miniature.
More follow: their wide, downturned mouths yawning open to thrash at the bait. After checking that all my limbs are intact, I let out a long, loud exhale. I have to admit they’re rather cute.
Finally, we turn our gaze inland and drive to the nearby village of Pedra de Lume, once a working salt mine. The mosaic of shimmering salt pans is otherworldly, with hues ranging from chalky white to vivid red.
These large salt deposits gave the island its name (Sal means ‘salt’ in Portuguese) and it’s the reason nothing grows here – very few plants can survive the thirsty soils. The two stone piers of the cable-lift, which transported the ‘white gold’ up until 1975, are still standing today.
Here, a natural lake lies in the crater of an extinct volcano, and I wade in. Much of the water has evaporated over time to leave an ultra-high concentration of salt, similar to the Dead Sea.
I lie on my back and, sure enough, my feet involuntarily bob to the surface, leaving me floating belly up like the Jungle Book’s Baloo. The mineral-rich mud is said to be rejuvenating and therapeutic.
‘You’ll go 10 years younger,’ Ismael shouts from the bank, as I plaster black silt all over my face.
Bumping back to Santa Maria on the pick-up, I sip a bottle of local Strela beer – my hair whipping up in the wind. Here, ‘no stress’ is more than a motto; it’s a way of life, even for a population accustomed to hardship.
Cape Verde has revealed itself as so much more than a fly-and-flop beach destination. It’s steeped with treasures and hard truths – if you’re willing to dig a little deeper.
Tui and easyJet operate several direct flights a week to Sal’s Amílcar Cabral International Airport (SID) from various UK airports, including London Gatwick and Manchester, taking around six hours. A TSA airport security tax of €31 per person must be paid. Organise online at least five days before your arrival to avoid long queues. Private taxis to Santa Maria start from €20 (15-20 minutes).
Cape Verdean Escudo is the official currency, but it can’t be brought in or taken out of the country. It’s better to bring euros, which are widely accepted.
The islands are a year-round destination, but December to March is the sweet spot for warm, sunny weather and fewer crowds.
Hotel Morabeza. This beachfront hotel was the island’s first when it opened in 1967. Traditional rooms are bathed in beige, but all have a terrace or balcony. You’ll find activities from yoga to archery, plus several palm-tree-lined pools, a beach club, cocktail bar and restaurant serving an extensive breakfast buffet and hosting traditional Cape Verdean nights on Saturdays.
