Land o'hoy: Are we on Mars?

Today the Atlantic race, the ARC goes from Grand Canary, and we have arrived at the Cape Verde Islands. The land shows up, a rusty iron silouette of volcano cones and long, low, lava plains. The moon is now to the west, so is this Mars?

We and our GPS point us into the Baia de Palmeira and soon huge jet-fuel tanks show up, towering over the little harbour village. This is the nearest port to the airport here on Ilha do Sal, the Amilcar Cadral International. Sal is the easternmost windward island, and a good place for crew changes.

There´s actually no Cape Verde on the Cape Verde Islands. That's on the coast of Africa. As at Madeira it was the Portugese who sailed here and explored these 10 volcanic islands. There wasn't anyone living here then, in 1462. But by the 1700´s they were already deforested, the little that had grown here the last millions of post-volcanic years, eroded by sugar plantation planting. These sugar industry slaves are now the occupants of the island, their creole-Portugese language one of the few reminders of a "European" past. In 1832 Charles Darwin described the islands as "utterly sterile". Except for some greenery around the towns and villages it is hard to tell what the occational herd of goats finds to eat. It´s apparenly greener to the north.

There´s no problem anchoring in the bay, along with about 30 other boats. No "boat-minders" about when we tie up to the concrete pier. The landing, doubling as a fish-cleaning table, is a bit on the slippery side. Small streets lined with one-story cinder-block houses, some freshly-painted in bright cheery colors, others a dusty rubble-pile of disrepair, and quite a few more or less constructed, but never quite finished. The streets are filled with kiddies playing, teens and young men hanging about. Not surprising, the average age is under 19 years. And not much work to be had. A variety of dogs occupy the streets, too. Lolling about or sprawled out in a shady spot.
One of the cheery little houses is the "Cantinha" café. Spick and span, with sunny yellow new-painted walls, green bushes growing in a trough along the walls. Inside, the windows are glassless, with iron bars and open green shutters. The Venezuelian/Italian couple who run it make a good paella. And they have the coldest beer I´ve ever tasted. Right out of the freezer, on tap, with ice in the foam!

Back at "Babette" we have a cup of coffee and a front-seat view of the sunset from the cockpit. The horizen to the west is a sharp line. The sun dips into it at 18:35. And is gobbled up in the space of a couple minutes. Pink and yellow streaks turn purple. Then black. A little breeze is nice in the humid dark night.

Night? It´s not even 7pm!