Sunny Sal and the Stalking
Salesman
As I stood in a crowd of beige
short wearing tourists armed with floppy hanging cameras, floppy hanging hats,
and floppy hanging stomachs, I presumed to take a detour from the heat driven
mass gathering towards Santa Maria’s central square.
As
I headed in the direction of a street appealing in its appetising emptiness, I
was confronted with words that stunted my excitement for boyish misdemeanour.
‘I’m
sorry sir, but you can’t go down there,’ the tour guide had said.
She also said ‘you can’t go down
there...there...or there either,’ pointing diligently each time. I found my
mouth agog wondering if standing upon the spot I was currently occupying would
be against the regulations of navigability too. She then continued, greeting
the sweat glinting group in that megaphone tone all tour operator guides seem
to employ; ‘and if I was you,’ her face now glaring directly at me,’ I wouldn’t
wonder too far from the main square.’
What
a marvellous place, I thought inquisitively.
The
heat was blistering down on Cape Verde’s sunny island of Sal. Choppy winds
swept in off the Sahara desert, whipping between the square’s country-sheriff-style
buildings and sparse mounts of planted pine trees.
The
land on Sal was, in a word, desolate. I had seen things greener parts of the
world before, for sure. The day prior to this, along with my partner, we had
been on a four by four off-road trip, taking clusters of sand filled air into
my lungs and coughing up an entire sand dune when arriving back to the hotel. The
barren landscape of Sal seemed to veer off for as far as the dusty horizon in
every direction.
The
islands of Cape Verde are a plush blend of African, Portuguese and Brazilian
cultures, and as customary welcomes go, it was as alienating an experience as I
have witnessed upon my travels. I was expecting something that resembled a bit
of a carnival atmosphere, with combinations of rich flavoursome flair and
native charismatic pulses flowing through the veins of the people.
Within
the main square I stood, in my spot of unsure geographical illegalness, I was
surrounded with a population of shady characters providing support to nearby
buildings, leering against the wooden poles like protagonists from a Jon Wayne
Western.
The
populated shops were selling all kinds of unaccustomed delicacies; German
pastries, Italian ice cream, and Guinness. It was like a Madame Tussauds of
European culture. I wasn’t sure, upon glancing from my small spot of
typographical perspective, what was actually local to Cape Verde, or indeed to
the island of Sal. I had heard about a stew-pot of some sorts, which was quite
popular, apparently, but I couldn’t see one being sold anywhere.
If
there’s one thing that culturally alienates tourists form feeling a sense of
local pleasure, it’s providing something that they never expected to find with
the expectation that this is what they indeed want and expect. But, being
frank, when I come to an island just 400 miles off the Senegalese coast, I
don’t expect to find Frankfurters. If I wanted a sausage of this description, I
would be standing in Germany. Or at very least, a reasonable gay bar.
Sal,
for its relatively new place upon the tourism spectrum, seemed to be heading in
the direction of misguided provisions. At very least, it was having an identity
crisis of some magnitude. When the driver of the 4x4 was bumping over the sand
dunes across the rocky desert at sixty mph, my head making indents in the roof
as we went, he tried telling me that this little island of 83 square miles was
going to get a brand new world championship size golf course – which I would
imagine would cover over half of the island. At least, in this development, I
supposed it would add a little greenness to the island. This wasn’t all though,
the guide of the tour also said many large chain hotels are investing into the
island, and it will soon have a Hilton and a developed road network.
And
as I moved off my spot of potential sturdiness, I reflected on just what a
shame that will be.
Sal,
I should note, has all kinds of wonders, and although as a small island of no
particular relevance to the world, and appears quite barren and is in the
process of being infested with European culture, at the point of me standing
there it held enough of its own culture and natural insight to intrigue me.
As
the island is so concise and small, you can see the full island in a day, and
upon the 4x4 trip, a cluster of curious tourists and myself were taken to see a
natural phenomenon, so to speak, known locally as ‘The Blue Eye’. In a crevice
somewhere near to the coastline, there, inside a deep filled hole,
approximately the size of the centre circle on a football field, this blue crystalline
textured image reflects up from the water, in the shape of an eye. It sparkled
in ribbons of reflective pulses, flashing glints and sprinkles of white and a
colour of blue indescribable in shade if you were to lay it upon a Dulux wall
chart. It was, to be sure, one of the most wonderful things I have ever seen.
This
little spec belonging to a country made up of ten different islands, had all
kinds of quirky and insightful intrigues. And, although being warned of my
navigational directives, I did feel quite safe; I just bore in mind not to go ‘down
there, over there, and definitely not down there’. So in a rush of excitement, we
decided to explore a little. The square was quite pleasant really, and as we
headed towards the shore, glaring out in both directions there spanned a beach
of enormous distance, so large that it just curved around the coast for miles
at either side of a wooden jetty that was standing directly in front of me.
That
was where we headed to next.
As we made our way there we
stopped to get an ice-cream. It was here, sitting down, that a man approached
us and asked if we wanted to buy anything from a sparse supply of undeniably
shoddy accessories. At first, being polite I said ‘no thanks, not at the minute’.
He
prompted again and said ‘I have a warehouse where we have much more; it is my
mother’s stall. You should come and see, my friend.’
He
had all kinds of commercial accessories hanging from both of his arms and neck;
watches, sunglasses, chain necklaces. He looked like a walking H.Samuel’s.
I
looked at him another time, saying ‘no, we’re alright thank you,’ and licked my
lips around a mango and coconut dribble of ice-cream that was hanging off the
plastic spoon.
As
we ventured down the jetty, I was surprised by its size. It was inundated with
various stalls and proprietors selling freshly caught fish, as small children ran
around in-between peoples feet, the tourists on looked curiously with their
floppy cameras hanging on their floppy stomachs, and at the end of the jetty, I
noted that the catch of the day was been brought in.
We
walked down towards the end, bearing an indigestible afternoon heat, and taking
in views of the surrounding vast sandy beach ploughing off in either direction,
until merging into a mixture of clear blue water and fresh white grains.
It
was standing her upon this spot, that our salesman counterpart approached us
again.
‘Will
you come to the stall now, my friend? The warehouse is just around the corner,
yes, not very far. Please come.’
All
at once he had had a conversation of multi-gesturing answers that all seemed to
direct in the favour of us following a stranger into an underground warehouse
that in no uncertain terms probably belonged to one of those streets I was
warned of not venturing down. So, all things considered, I said no thank you as
politely as I could and we continued to walk down the jetty.
A
large woman bearing a heedful of playful braids held out a flying fish by its
‘wings’ – that’s all I can think to describe them as, really, as it wriggled in
her hands. She was a lady of sizeable quantity and was sat down on an upside
down bucket (stronger than they appear, apparently), and she had a black
bandana wrapped around her head which kept her floating hair off her face as
she smiled and posed for a picture.
Men
wondered around everywhere, looking at each other’s catches, selling freshly
caught fish to the other locals, and displaying a fine explosion of fish innards,
as they flopped out over the wooden planks as they gutted them.
Santa
Maria’s beach was fluttered with a few sunbathers, but apart from that, you could
see how tourism had yet to really explode on the island. It was the beginning
of June; about thirty degree’s with a sure breeze and as exotic destinations
go, it is by no means a vastly expensive one. It is said it will be the ‘New
Canary Islands’. I hope now, as I write this, that in some escape from madness
back to reality, that someone doesn’t let that happen. But I fear that
unfortunately, it may already be too late.
We
began to walk back down the wooden jetty towards the square again, when we saw the
salesman who was now huddled with a few of his colleagues. We tried to avoid
his gaze by appearing occupied, but he of course saw us, and then pointed in
our direction and made his way to come over.
‘Oh
goodness’, I thought. ‘And I’m wearing red shorts so can’t even blend into the
crowd of beigeness’. Plus I’m white so that was a little bit of a giveaway too.
I said to my partner that we should make haste towards the beach ‘maybe we can
lose him in the twenty seven miles of vast empty shoreline – yes that will work
for sure.’
For reasons of pure sanity, and
the fact that it apparently would take two hours to walk back to our hotel that
way, it wasn’t exactly a preferred option. I digested that, in the
mid-afternoon hum of African coastline heat, these temperatures could cause
mass dehydration, and thus I began to panic; a startling choice between being
dragged into a warehouse by a fake Rayban salesman or suffocating upon a vast
sandy shoreline. In a rash decision, I opted for the latter.
‘Hey,
hey you.’ I heard as we got to the end of the jetty back onto the concrete.
He
was right behind us.
‘Look
pal,’ I began frankly, ‘we don’t want to come thanks, we’re not going to buy
anything as we don’t have any money.’ I thought if I was firm and honest he’d
just, well, take his leave.
‘You
said you would come,’ he replied.
‘Nope.
Definitely didn’t say that,’ I asserted, and then turned hastily in the
direction of the beach.
We
began to walk off, and I thought he’d got the message, but he hustled slowly behind
us as though he was trying to disguise himself among the background of sand as
we stepped onto the beach. His disguise of black skin on white sand was almost
as good as my red shorts against beige cargo.
I
thought that if we walked close to the water’s edge then it would be likely he wouldn’t
bother following us.
I
was wrong.
We
got so far down the shoreline (approximately 1000 miles) and looked behind to
see him trailing about hundered metres behind. I wondered what his problem was,
but then I guessed that with the influx of tourism, and this being a new aspect
of life on their island, that they haven’t really developed a good sale’s
manner yet. I mean, ‘hey you, come to my warehouse. Meet my mother and buy lots
of things.’
I’m
no expert, but as a business model, I feel yours is fundamentally floored.
I
was pleased to note, after taking a whipping from sand rising in the winds, and
experiencing a close flirtation with dehydration, and sun burn – all things
which I would never recommend to experience – that he was no longer following
behind.
As
we plodded on back to the hotel, I found myself wondering what the place was
going to do when tourism does really start to expand and develop. It’s one
thing being able to walk down a beach and barely see a soul for two hours as
sand kicks up and whips your legs as you boil dry on the walk back to a hotel.
It’s another completely to be doing that because you were chased by a man who
had the sales charm of Jack the Ripper and was wearing more bling than Mr T.
Sal
had more than enough little quirks for a visit, for sure. But apart from that,
I can’t really see it being a place that would ever hold its traditions and
culture whilst attaining a reputable place as a tourist destination.
It
all felt, if I’m honest, a little bit forced really.
When
I go somewhere, I want to see what the place has to offer, meet a few friendly
locals if I can, and feel relaxed. I don’t want to be chased back to my hotel
because I didn’t buy a bracelet made of string that I would never wear.
Sal,
for all of its intrigues, felt like a place where the locals would be forced to
sit back and watch as a place they call home is destroyed by tourism. I’m not
sure that it will work, maybe I’ll be wrong. But as for people like the
salesman, I may not be the last person he has to try and convince to go to his
warehouse, but for future reference, my friend, I would probably find a better
sales technique.
