Dark and light sides of Mindelo. Cabo Verde. Spring 2025.

We arrived in Mindelo on February 27th, a few days before the carnival frenzy would hit the city. Since hitchhiking in Cabo Verde was still a bit of a mystery to us, we decided to take a taxi from the Cesária Évora airport, which cost 1200 escudos. The studio, actually a garage converted into an apartment, that we rented for our entire stay was located in the quiet residential area of Madeiralzinho. The first thing the landlady told us after handing over the keys was, “Be careful, there's a lot of movement now”. “It's carnival time”, she added. Over the next few days we would find out what she meant. The city was chaotic and crowded in anticipation of the festivities. The main streets were lined with ticketed stands for spectators willing to pay between 1000 and 2000 escudos for an evening show. On the opposite side, all kinds of seating - plastic chairs, wooden stools, boxes, benches - sprouted up, reserved and negotiated through street fixers, adding a layer of unofficial competition.

At the same time, city life pulsated with its usual rhythm. The markets flourished, vibrant and vivid, full of shrill sounds and commotion. At Praça Estrela, the stalls offered a wide variety of produce—new potatoes from Santo Antão, ripe papayas from Praia, goat cheese from Calhão. The smell of fish wafted through the nearby streets, where skilled vendors worked tirelessly. Their hands moved with mastery and precision as they skinned, scrubbed, and gutted the day's catch. The sun slowly dipped behind Monte Cara, casting a warm glow over the bustling scene where the sale of fish continued until the last rays of light faded into the night.

On our way home, we stopped by the Café Morabeza, a busy place popular with locals and foreigners alike. Near the entrance, I noticed an elderly Caboverdian gentleman sitting alone at a table. Drawn by my love of striking up conversations with strangers, especially if I can speak their language, I approached him and asked if he had enjoyed his dinner. He replied warmly, "Sim, comi sopa de abóbora com pão. Uma maravilha! Gostei, mas cada um tem o seu gosto." "Eu sou masculino e você é feminina, mas somos irmãos”, he added with a gentle smile. It was one of those fleeting moments of human connection that always remain among the most cherished memories of my travels.

Early on a Saturday morning, we met up with a Russian woman who had called Cabo Verde home for the past thirty years. We had befriended her on Facebook, and she generously offered to guide us through the intricacies of the fish market, sharing her knowledge of local seafood. We bought two types of fish: bidião, a colorful parrotfish, for 400 escudos per kilo, and garoupa de Madeira, a blackbelly rosefish, for 500 escudos. The locals explained that the prices were unusually high due to the windy weather, while bidião normally cost between 250 and 300 escudos. Our new friend also introduced us to a lesser-known corner of the market, where the municipality provided fish cleaning services for just thirty escudos per kilo. As we explored, she pointed out a man in a red hat and recounted a story about how he once tried to scam unsuspecting tourists by charging them five euros for the same service. Fortunately, she had intervened, but the culprit had already fled.

Upon our return home, our landlady, Dona Filomena, surprised us with a warm gesture: a homemade cachupa rica, a traditional Caboverdian stew with meat, sausage, corn, beans, and vegetables. She also brought us fresh goat cheese. I had previously read reviews praising her kindness, and I envisioned her welcoming us with a pot of hearty homemade food—exactly what happened. During our conversation, she mentioned that her friend, who owns a guesthouse on the coast of Santo Antão, had to order ten kilograms of fish from São Vicente to make up for the shortage. This confirmed what the locals at the market had been saying about the scarcity of fresh catch.

As we explored Mindelo, we noticed that every window was fortified with metal bars or tightly closed narrow-slit shutters. The doors were all locked, and no light could be seen inside the houses. Every opening in every wall or pane of glass was secured—not just to keep out heat or wind, but for safety. It certainly wasn't the carnival season that prompted this vigilance, but a constant threat. Returning to Mindelo after two weeks in Santo Antão, we wanted to experience its famous live music scene. One night, we found ourselves on an open-air terrace, wrapped in soulful sounds of a guitar and violin playing mornas. Sipping mint tea and munching caramel cake, we enjoyed a private concert before other customers would arrive. But the moment of tranquility was short-lived. A frail, poorly dressed girl silently approached our table, grabbed the remaining cake from the plate with her hand, and licked a spoon clean. When we told the waiter what had just happened, she responded with sadness, calling it a harsh reality of Mindelo. “In Santo Antão, São Nicolau, Fogo, everything is calm. And you know, here it’s not hunger, it’s drugs,” she added.

Those were the sharp contacts that marked our brief stay in the city. Like any big port, Mindelo is full of life, with its dark and bright sides. On our last morning, we walked out of the city's awakening landscape and hitched a ride with a local couple. Even though they weren't going to the airport, they didn't hesitate to offer us a lift. In a gesture that felt like a warm farewell from the city itself, they ended up making a detour to drop us off at the entrance. It is the kindness and generosity of people that makes any place worth visiting, much more than its sights or attractions.