It’s a grey day. A sudden change in the wind has caused a brief spell of steep swells. The boat is working hard; flying spray keeps the foredeck wet all the way up to the mainmast. The most sought-after spot in the first half of the day: the bench along the windward side of the saloon, right on the edge.
All meals are served on schedule, however – a true feat of acrobatics by the service team. Far aft, a catamaran ferry is struggling along, lurching from side to side; you wouldn’t want to be on board that. At 10 pm, the anchor drops in the roadstead off Sal Rei to the west of Boa Vista, a little further out to be on the safe side. The chief mate closes the logbook.
Boa Vista – ‘Beautiful View’ – doesn’t quite live up to its name at first glance. It could hardly be more hazy: the Boma Seca brings sand from the Sahara and covers everything in a pale veil. The wind has turned Boa Vista into a desert island. Two dozen yachts are moored in the bay of Sal Rei, the main town, including many catamarans and many French people.
We’re moored a little further out, just under a nautical mile from the village. The dinghies dock at the jetty amongst the fishing boats at anchor. Up on the pier there’s a café and a souvenir stall selling scarves, football shirts and pottery turtles. We realise just how much of a desert island Boa Vista is during our shore excursion, this time in pick-up trucks – indestructible Toyotas.
We travel across Sal Rei in the back of a lorry. Palm trees, low, rectangular houses – distinctly more African than Mindelo. Bars and supermarkets, streets laid out in a grid pattern. Diesel is available for one euro at Shell, though that’s with an annual income of 5,000 dollars. Yet there’s plenty of construction going on: “Invest in Boa Vista! New project coming soon!” The only five-star coach in town is operated by TUI, as are the two largest hotels and both holiday airlines at the airfield.
What else is there? Coffee from the island of Fogo is roasted on Boa Vista and the cement for the new hotel buildings is produced here, explains our local guide as he puts on his ski goggles – because we’re off to Viana now. Apparently, this desert is the smallest in the world, covering nine square kilometres. It was formed in the 19th century after the tamarind bushes in the island’s interior were cleared to fuel the brickworks’ fires. The sand blew over from Africa and settled here. The view is impressive.
We drive through the countryside into the mountains to Povoação Velha, a fishing village well hidden inland – a strategy adopted in the past to ward off passing pirates. From the little church with its coffin for hire, we stroll into the village. “Hello, welcome! Where are you from?” the men greet us. “No stress!” The only woman runs the Zazi bar, the only one in the village. Bottles are placed on the table. There’s Coke and Strela, the beer from Cape Verde.
Back towards the coast, after fresh tarmac and cobblestones, dirt tracks and desert sand, the Toyotas are now driving over dunes. Praia da Varandinha is said to be one of the most beautiful beaches of all. It is certainly impressive. A turquoise sea, rolling surf and a fine white beach stretching as far as the eye can see.
To round things off, we head for the Pérola d’Chaves beach bar. Fluttering curtains and palm trees, bikinis and swim shorts in the deckchairs, lulled by lounge music as gentle as the wind. “No stress!” There it was again – the almost official motto of Cape Verde. We’ll be hearing it even more often over the next few days.

Editor Travel