elementos brabos

There is something in the mild, early morning breeze that soothes even the most restless souls. Without the reminders of human life scurrying about, we are left with just the most basic elements of life, the earth that rests below us, the breeze that chills us, the sun burning brightly just below the horizon and the water that laps hungrily at each inch of coastline.

For sixteen months I have lived within the limited coastline of the island of Fogo. Each day, I have watched the sun return quietly to its resting place below the horizon over a few small, distant breaks in the seemingly endless plane of ocean. Brava, a chunk of land floating magically just off the coast, is the last lonely island disturbing the vast expanse of ocean. Keeping watch over the water, Brava is aided by the aptly named ilhéus secos (dry islets) where I have yearned to set foot. Their rocky, wild shores promise a taste of absolute isolation and abandon that is unknown in our busy, civilized lives.

In Cape Verde, a country that consists entirely of breaks in the plane of ocean, the elements are not only inescapable, but literally define existence. Sprung from the ocean in volcanic bursts, the islands stand as earth birthed by fire surrounded by water and battered each day with unrelenting winds. Unpopulated until the Portuguese discovery in 1460 and colonization in 1462, there are days when I wonder if they were ever meant to support human life. Today will be one of those days.

It is dark, but I have been awake for almost an hour. The only disruption to the still night air is the shifting of fabric and the flicking of a light switch in our calm preparation. Not a word has been said.

We sit, serene under the light of the moon and copious stars, quietly picking at bites of bread and trail mix, each existing in our own worlds. The distant sound of wheels battering cobblestone alerts us to the fact that we are no longer alone in the small hours of morning. Awaiting the arrival of the sun over the distant volcano’s peak to breathe the life of day into the city streets, we each prepare to embark. It is today that I will set foot on the ilhéus secos.

After a death-defying trip in the back of a truck and waiting at the pier for almost 2 hours, we leave the shore in perfect island time. The good news, lunch is to be included. The bad news, lunch will definitely be needed. The open ocean tosses our tiny boat like a violent child’s plaything in turbulent bath time waters. No amount of Dramamine could release my stomach from the grips of nausea as I cling to the edge of my seat and am rhythmically battered with walls of water. My eyes remain rooted firmly on the distant soil that seems to continuously slip into the horizon as my stomach fights wars against itself. The carnage is tossed to the side.

I have never been so happy to set foot on solid ground. Immediately I fall into a special state of coma reserved for those who have managed to throw up the past three days’ meals. After an unknown amount of time absorbing solar energy, I awake to examine what kind of ground on which I am so thankful to have arrived. After braving the water, I find myself on a lonely, raw piece of earth. I stand only to be hit by sharp sand-filled winds that, despite their regularity here, have not ceased to astonish me. Our tiny ship is anchored in a cove that hosts a small beach, many rocks and an overhang that I would later realize provided the only available shade. In a daze, I wrap myself, find my shoes and wander off to a higher point to assess the foreign surroundings that for one day I would call home.

The sound of the waves rising up and crashing onto the islet’s rocky coast is second only to the blasts of wind. There is not a bush more than two inches high to break the constant battering of gale force winds. Each gust bears a blast of sand that eats away at the barren landscape and any exposed flesh. Raised in the generation of Captain Planet, I cannot help but think that a small fire would complete the combination of elements, and from the dry dusty Earth would rise the pollution-reducing hero. The fire would come later with an abundance of freshly caught fish, but Captain Planet would not be there to partake.

The entirety of the wild terrain is easily covered by foot, and within hours, there is no cove, rise or beach that has been left unexplored. The harsh sun and brutal winds do not allow for much time of solitary reflection and, after sitting in the sands of a virtually untouched beach for a mere 30 minutes, I find the exposure too much for my civilized flesh. I return to our little sanctuary of shade and mark the passing of time in the swallowing of shadows as the sun overtakes the sky. The men with whom we’ve come continue to fish while we continue to inch further and further into the short alcove, our feet left burning, unprotected by the diminishing shade.

With nothing else to do, my body sucked dry of moisture and roasting lightly in the afternoon sun, I am overcome by a second-wave nap. The sounds and movements of those around me strike a harmony with the constant moaning of the wind and the hungry lapping of the waves inching in to high tide. I awake to this symphony to find both the beach and the shade devoured. Only the wind and dry earth remain.

The journey home promises to be an adventure as the angry winds have grown in force and the water within the cove bears warning of the turmoil that waits beyond its protective reach. Whispers of passing the night protected only by the cove reach my ears and in a panic I realize how truly isolated and exposed we are. The evening chill in the air threatens to combine with the blasting winds. Our light packs contain supplies only for a day’s trip. The water has been drunk. Only food and booze remain.

Though there is no threat of mortality, the idea of staying is frightening. Women are outnumbered two to one and the only things to keep us warm are the ever-powerful and ever-repugnant locally distilled grogue and each other. Civilization seems to stand waiting, perched on the shores of distant Fogo. After much debate and stalling, we are unceremoniously loaded into the boat. The men, the booze and the grill in the first trip from the shore, the women in the second. The sun sinks behind us as we set out from the cove and the expanse of treacherous, angry waves stands between us and our destination.

The boat is tossed violently from one crest to the next. One of the men, a fisher by profession since the age of 13, leans in close to me and says this is where his brother died just three months ago. I sit, perched and tense, fearing my fate. The constant battering of cold water against my face and body jars the battles within my stomach, but only for so long. The night sky stretches her fingers across the horizon and as stars begin to appear, it is no longer possible to see the impending waves. I return my portion of fish to its rightful home and allow my body to be alternately rigid and loose while thrown about in a dark and dangerous nightmare.

I do not know how long the journey lasted or how much actual danger we were in as we traversed the tumultuous expanse of water. After an eternity of swaying to the ocean’s dangerous dance, I find myself once again thankful, this time not just for the earth on which I stand, but to João Paulo, the man who so gracefully steered us through the perilous waves and delivered me to this solid ground. Still nauseous and exhausted from the day’s exposure, I am packed into a car and delivered once again to the steps of the house upon which this day began. I am filled with a new sense of appreciation for the protection that the simple concrete walls provide and for once find comfort in the hum of cars whizzing past and the chorus of televisions, radios and children’s voices in the evening air. Though civilization can be remarkably uncivilized, it is all that stands between us and the wild elements.