The archipelago carries the name “verde” (green), though green is what it rarely is. It’s true that during the summer, when the rains arrive, the brown earth seems touched by a magic wand, briefly cloaking the land in hues of green, like a watercolor painting with endless shades. Bongolom and sapatinha beans are sown, along with corn that grows amidst the grass—later to be weeded and harvested. Even if it’s only to feed the limária (the animals), as long as the rains fall regularly and in enough abundance to nourish hope and sustain faith: “fé na Deus!”—faith in God.
It is this unshakable faith and persistence that I’ve witnessed ever since I first arrived in Cape Verde, back in 1980. I recall here a few notes I wrote at the age of 21, reflections that, while grounded in a particular day, place, and celebration, extend beyond them.
On that August 15th, 1987—Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary—Praia celebrated its patron saint, Our Lady of Grace. It’s a municipal holiday in the capital. The main square, near the bandstand and the Church of Nossa Senhora da Graça, fills with color as devotees gather in the early afternoon for mass.
CHALLENGING THE HEAVENS WHILE CELEBRATING THE PATRONESS
“The day hurries along, coming to an end without the looming rain ever falling. The city is nearly deserted—at least the parts where the flausinas and flausinos usually stroll; holidays are like that.
In the anticipation of something all their own, people chase after pleasures that might help them escape the raw taste of daily life. Though the rains are longed for and invited to join in, they remain distant—yet another illusion denied to the islanders.
Our Lady grants these small bounties even to those who barely believe in her. The rural ritual had long been completed, marked by a special outfit and an afternoon mass.
Until the day’s end, crowds insist on challenging the sky with a festive spirit, knowing well that soon after, a day of work would begin again—perhaps under a tropical downpour… postponed for now.
Every scrap of land lost in the vastness of the ocean seems to cry out against eternal abandonment and neglect: ‘Not even the rain!’ The Morna seems to eternalize the pain, resignation, and inspiration felt by every island poet. Sometimes the violin mimics the harsh wind, while the other ingredients are sung in the refrain.
The troubadour sings his crecheu, laments the distant sea, and the departures in search of better days…
He lifts his spirits with another glass of grogue.
Until someone falls asleep—or waits for a new day.”
Praia, August 15, 1987″