The village of Tarrafal once referred to because of its "Campo da morte lenta" (slow death camp) located just about three kilometres away (closed and re-opened several times in the course of the Portuguese history), is nowadays known almost exclusively as being a nice holiday resort, because of its bay with a string of small coves surrounded by mountains ... a white sandy beach with an "impressive" cobalt like sea and an ongoing small boat fishing activity ... (the camp having been turned into a Museum).
I was curious as to what might have changed since I first visited it in 2001, having camped for a week close to one of those coves. Not much had changed, apart from the fact that I might not risk camping on my own nowadays, having been made aware of the increasing number of foreign victims of theft, something unheard of then.
The Church square, in whose side streets I used to buy my daily meals cooked out in the open, seemed significantly less active than back then, but the imposing little church was still there and I couldn't help photographing it.
I have to confess a certain nostalgic feeling took over me when it was time to catch the "aluguer" (local transportation vehicle driving around the main streets and calling out for people to board) ... all I could think of was the "Hora di bai" poem by Eugénio Tavares reminding me that having to turn my back and leave was painful.
I didn't realise I would be so attached to this little village nine years later and certainly not the way such long gone memories of friendship and solidarity of the past would impact me.
I have been too busy working every time I have flown to Cape Verde to even consider driving to Tarrafal, but I do hope to be able to go back there next October.