Solo hikes to Gótxód waterfall. Santo Antão, Cabo Verde. Spring 2025

Cavouco Cosco, Ribeira da Torre - Xôxô - Gótxód Waterfall - Rabo Curto - Melícia

Distance 11 km (gpx). Elevation gain 646 m. Elevation loss 518 m

That morning, I set out alone into the Ribeira da Torre valley as the first rays of sunlight gilded the mountain ridges. The paved road wound like a ribbon along the valley floor, leading me to Xôxô ([Shosho])—a place as serene as its soft, whispering name suggests. It was Sunday, which meant that only rare cars disturbed the silence, leaving the soundtrack to trickling water and the occasional "bom dia" from local joggers. The lushness of Xôxô struck me: pools glinting under the rising sun, reservoirs overflowing, and levadas threading through the landscape. The constant murmur of the streams guided me towards the Gótxód waterfall.

The real challenge began at one of the water tanks, where the trail steeply went up. Then it dropped sharply into the next valley before climbing back up to terraces with dizzying vistas. A distant waterfall cascaded from the mountain, but my destination lay deeper. Descending again, I glimpsed Gótxód through the gorge—its soothing splash now audible. Reaching it meant navigating stairs and a levada clinging to the face of the mountain. The flimsy handrail was broken and torn.

I pushed forward, heart pounding, as protruding rocks forced me to dodge along the edge of the water channel. Two meters from the pool that fed the levada, I stopped. "You shouldn't have attempted this extremely exposed section alone,"—thoughts swirled in my head. The drop yawned below, the railing useless. Common sense prevailed: I retreated and enjoyed the view of Gótxód from a safer vantage point below.

I walked back slowly, savoring the sweeping views of emerald hills punctuated by jagged lava obelisks. In the tiny settlement of Lombo de Pico, women were washing dishes and clothes in the cool waters of the levada that originated from the waterfall. Constança, a lively woman with a confident posture, shared that although their homes had running water, they still relied on the mountain flow for many daily chores and irrigation. She moved to this village in 1976, when she was just 21 years old, and has lived in the same house ever since.

By the time I reached the main road, delicate clouds had dissipated, the gentle morning breeze was gone, and the sun was blazing mercilessly. Ahead loomed a brutal cobblestone climb—350 meters of ascent crammed into just 1.5 kilometers. My destination: Rabo Curto, a village clinging to a mountain ridge. As I pushed upward, drenched in sweat, locals sprinted past me in the opposite direction. Carrying bulging sacks, they ran to catch the collective van to the city. Their effortless speed against my laborious crawl painted a stark contrast: daily routine out of necessity versus my voluntary perseverance out of curiosity.

Once in the village, I was again struck by the omnipresence of water. The terraces around the houses were lush green, glistening in the afternoon sun. Against this emerald canvas, the scarlet leaves of a poinsettia tree flared with tropical intensity. A young farmer happily showed me his bountiful crops: sweet potatoes, yam, cucumbers, coriander, carrots, cabbage, beans—enough to fill family pots and Ribeira Grande's market stalls. He crouched down to cradle a tapioca sprout, explaining that its roots require a year of patience before they can be eaten, fried or boiled. "Com água tudo cresce," he said, looking proudly around his garden.

Nearby, children were chasing each other down the village's only street. When asked about school, they mentioned it was in Ribeira Grande. I imagined tiny backpacks navigating the steep climb—the route the kids mastered every day, starting in first grade. After a brief but fulfilling visit to this remote village, accessible only on foot, I walked down to Melícia, where I had the luxury of catching a ride back to my guesthouse. A young guy pulled up in a battered red jalopy, its engine grinding and rattling as if held together by little more than duct tape and baling wire. “I’m a car mechanic,” the driver reassured me quickly. Ten minutes later, I arrived safe and sound at the starting point of my early morning hike.

Cavouco Cosco, Ribeira da Torre - Vinha - Gótxód Waterfall - Lombo de Pico - Cavouco Cosco

Distance 10.5 km (gpx). Elevation gain 452 m. Elevation loss 452 m

I loved Xôxô so much that two days later I decided to return to the waterfall via a different route. Leaving before sunrise on Tuesday, I walked to a soundtrack unlike any other—the rhythmic shhh-shhh of sand being sifted through metal sieves. While meditative to hikers, this rustle revealed a harsh reality: men in the Ribeira da Torre worked from dawn to dusk under the open sky, manually separating sand from rock. Further along, grog factories dotted the valley. A sweet, smoky scent hung in the air, drifting inside the gorge and wafting far between the mountains.

I climbed up to the tiny village of Vinha, then followed a dry levada that felt much safer than the exposed path near Gótxód. A narrow trail led me down to the ravine below the waterfall, where I sat on a stone and listened to the steady murmur of water that filled the silence. This time I didn't push my luck by getting closer, but the view from the valley was enough. It was a quiet moment of peace—alone, surrounded by untouched nature.

From there I retraced my steps back to Lombo de Pico and then to the road near Xôxô. On the way, I passed a local man and woman balancing huge stacks of sugar cane on their heads. In front of them, a large group of French tourists, who had just set off on their hike to the waterfall, stopped halfway and blocked the road while taking photos of an unremarkable black and white cow.

Fortunately, my early start had given me a moment of solitude in the heart of the magical valley. The lava pinnacle that gives Ribeira da Torre its name stood proudly in the distance, its rugged silhouette carved against the deep blue of the sky. This hike was my final nod, my farewell to the unspoiled beauty of Santo Antão. The next day we returned to São Vicente.