I can only recollect the flight to Sao Vicente. I left the Sal airport a confused, tired toddler fresh to the world. I woke before we landed. A purple-blue sunset outlined a precipice coastline. A lone lighthouse blinked in the retiring light. We landed between jagged mountains. We walked across a windy tarmac, bounded by two villages on the left and right. The end of the runway was a long jump from beach sand. As I feared, my luggage never made it on the flight.

Half of the plane’s passengers crowded the one room office only large enough for it’s desk and a guest. When I explained that I did not speak Creole, a few of the disgruntled passengers looked as though I were a ghost. I thought I might just become one. How could I come to Cape Verde by myself and not even speak Portuguese a man asked me.

A few minutes later I used that crippled Portuguese to get a taxi to the hotel. It turned out that the village to the right of the airport was my hotel, the Foya Branca. It’s the only resort on the island. We drove acfross unlit, cobble stones in an early nineties isuzu. The car rattle along the road as I made quick exit plans in case the driver was scamming me. Did he understand my broken request for the hotel? We agreed on the money, but what if I misspoke. What happens if he leaves me in the middle of nowhere?

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