Ribeira da Torre valley, Santo Antão. Cabo Verde. Spring 2025

For two weeks, the Ribeira da Torre valley was our safe haven and the gateway to most of our hikes across Santo Antão. Here, time slowed to a gentle rhythm, untouched by the rush and hustle of the city. Stories of the locals, shaped by the slow steady pace of life in the mountains, wove seamlessly into the fabric of each day. Soft rustle of banana leaves lulled us to sleep, reminiscent of the soothing sound of waves rolling onto the shore. In the twilight, the setting sun bathed palm trees and volcanic peaks in warm, golden glow, drawing a serene close to the day. As night fell, sharp calls of nocturnal birds pierced the quiet darkness.

"Every family around here has its own breadfruit tree, coconut palm, and banana grove. We only eat breadfruit after it's boiled and we pick it before it gets too ripe and sweet. When I was a kid, my favorite dishes were cachupa and feijão with sweet potatoes or yams. We didn’t have much meat, but my mother would add some animal fat to make the meals heartier.”

Work in the Ribeira da Torre valley never stops. People are always busy harvesting bananas and sugarcane, watering plants, and tending to animals—all while constantly climbing up and down the hills. In the evenings, women wade into the stream to gather watercress for soup or salad. When we’re not hiking, we head to the market in Ribeira Grande for fresh vegetables, fruit, and cheese. Few foreigners stay here for more than a couple of days, so after a week, the vendors know us and often give us better prices.

"I immigrated when I was sixteen. My first job was on a cargo ship bound for Rotterdam. After a year, I switched to an oil tanker—hard work dealing with gasoline and fuel oil. I did that for fifteen years before finding a job at a bottle factory, where I stayed until I retired twenty-seven years later. My son is twenty-seven now. He just finished university and is looking for work as an engineer. I left Cabo Verde in 1972 when there was nothing here. Back then, you could get to Rotterdam if you found a job on a ship. It’s much harder now.”

Life in Cabo Verde often requires a great deal of patience. You might wait two hours at the bank just to pay a bill or stand in a mile-long line to buy Carnival tickets. Even catching a ride to the next town means waiting for a van to fill up. In Mindelo, we once waited two hours at the bank and were amazed to find a hundred people in the line ahead of us. Another day, we passed by a visa center. In front of the plain building, which had no official signs, posted hours, or written information, we witnessed a striking scene: a huge crowd had gathered, waiting patiently for hours on end just for a chance to travel.

“We used to get our drinking water from a ribeira down in the valley. We never drank from the big river—that was only for washing and watering the gardens. Higher up the mountain, there were springs that never ran dry, even in the hottest months. Up there, you see, there was once a spring and a bananeira, both belonging to the house perched on the hillside. But then a landslide struck, the terrace collapsed, and the source dried up. We also had a levada winding along the slope, carrying water to where it was needed. Just a couple of years before I left home, they finally built a small reservoir for the nearby houses.”

The month of March, when we found ourselves in Ribeira da Torre, is part of the dry season, when riverbeds are usually dry and the trails are parched. One day, however, the sky surprised us—it rained in the morning and again in the evening. For twenty glorious minutes, it poured, soaking the earth and lifting our spirits. It felt like the valley itself was saying goodbye, blessing us with a rare and memorable farewell after two unforgettable weeks. As we packed our backpacks, the guesthouse owner insisted we take papayas and bananas de prata from his garden—a simple, heartfelt gift that captured the kindness and generosity we’d come to know so well in Santo Antão.