Santo Antão - Mar Azul


When I put my foot on the soil of Santo Antão island I felt like I stepped out of a time machine. Time doesn’t matter on this island somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. The cobblestone road through Porto Novo, the main village on the island was empty once the passengers of the ferry disappeared in their houses. I was hungry and tumbled into a small bar, where some guys hid themselves from the strong sun outside. In the corner an old man fondled his violin, while his deep voice blamed the island for forgetting the poor creatures living here. He told about the harsh wind blowing from the Atlantic and the few rain which it brings. But nobody ever wants to leave: Santo Antão is melancholy. Its people, its climate, its landscape. He sang about the heavy fog, which covers the rough costal areas, while on the top of the steep mountains the sun bakes the barren slopes. Tiny villages cling the cliffs connected by narrow winding paths, like pearls on a necklace. Music is the color of the artists, who painted this landscape: Often harsh and rugged, while sometimes gentle and mild. The island in the wind. The intense taste of the fresh oysters on the plate in front of me, a slice of already hard white bread and the last words of the man with his violin let me understand the love of the people for their island:


"Deeper feelings, Than all seas already crossed, My home, my secret place, In the left side of my breast…"