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Mindelo
Only the paranoid surivive.
- Andrew S. Grove, Former CEO of Intel
Dirt has a definite and distinct smell. I didn't notice it when I lived on dry land, but when I pulled in to the harbor at Mindelo the mineral smell of it was overpowering. I now been out to sea over two years. The last year involved a circuitous route to Cape Verde mainly using the currents that looped around the north of the Sargasso Sea and then down along the coast of Africa. I was nearly out of fuel so there had been no other way.
The smell of earth, of a real place, with actual people living real lives had a big effect on me. I anchored my little fishing boat at the edge of the harbor and tried to drink it all in. The sounds of other boats and cars. The way the blue of the harbor gave way to the impoverished beauty of the dilapidated city that now surrounded me.
Finally a guy in a little boat came out towards me. "Bom dia. Taxi da agua?" he yelled pulling alongside.
I hadn't spoken to anyone in 2 years, I didn't know Portuguese, and of course I didn't have a clue about the creole dialect that he was speaking. But I did figure out that "Taxi da agua" meant "water taxi".
I spoke back in Spanish, hoping it was close enough for him to understand, "Un memento por favor".
He seemed to get that I wanted him to wait for a minute. I came back and handed him a couple of U.S. dollars and said "?es esta autorizacion?" and pointed to shore. I have no idea if he understood what I said, but he frowned, nodded and motioned me into the boat.
A few minutes later, I stepped on to dry land. I half expected sirens to go off and police to instantly appear, but it seemed that nothing exciting had ever happened in this place, and never would. After all this time, I was finally back on dry land. Cape Verde was a sleepy, poor, crime ridden country far away from everything, I was fairly sure that no one would expect to find me here, as I had worked hard to do all of my communication out of Cuban waters. Hopefully the people at Interpol and the FBI actually thought that I was in Cuba.
My plan was to hook up with a guy named Eugenio Pereira that my lawyer had recommended in an email. The guy would help me get access to my money, and get me a semi-legitimate Cape Verdean passport. And I was told that he could do this quietly, without alerting the authorities.
I was nervous, because he could also just turn me into the police. Or have me killed and claim the money from the Malrone family. I had spent many days and nights during the year it had taken me to get here thinking of all the possibilities. But there was no other choice. I had to trust someone, sometime, and it seemed likely that it was more profitable for Eugenio to overcharge me for services than get involved in a messy deal with the authorities or drug lords. Especially in a country like the Cape Verde Islands where the law was interpreted as a loose guideline at best. Still I could barely keep my paranoia at bay.
Eugenio had a legitimate job as a bank manager, and I was to look for him there. So I stumbled into the lobby of the Primeiro Banco do Mindelo, probably looking to the Cape Verdeans like I was some alien from another planet. But when I asked for Eugenio, the receptionist kind of gave me a knowing smile and led me to a back office.
Eugenio was exactly the kind of greasy haired, sleazy guy in a business suit that I had expected him to be. He didn't speak Spanish or English, and so I asked if we could call my lawyer in Portugal and get his help to translate. My lawyer was a leading international criminal asylum attorney named Miguel Vargos that was based in Lisbon. I had never actually spoken to him on the phone before as I did all of my transactions by email via submarine in Cuba, which had to be one of the most bizarre methods of communication ever attempted. And I hadn't even done that for a year now, as I didn't want to tip the authorities off that I was on my way across the Atlantic.
Miguel had been in the process of negotiating on my behalf with the U.S. and Interpol and was looking for a place of asylum for me when I had disappeared. So it had to be pretty strange to have me call from Eugenio's office in Mindelo after all this time. He probably thought I was dead, or at least was sure that he would never hear from me again.
I had never told Miguel where I was or what I was doing, because of my own paranoia, and I figured he probably didn't want to aid and abet a criminal anyway. So it really wasn't a surprise that at first he didn't want to help me with Eugenio. But I begged and pleaded and told him that I was really only there at his recommendation. He was the one that had pointed me to Eugenio all the way down in the Cape Verdes as the best way to get at my money, and find a place to hide. Finally he agreed to transfer about 75K of my money through him to Eugenio. I didn't trust Eugenio with my account information, and I didn't want to tip the authorities off through bank transactions that I was in Mindelo, so I needed my lawyer to act as an intermediary. Of course Eugenio took a big chunk of that for himself, and held the rest in a "trust" until I had a new identity.
But when I finally walked out the door with money in my pocket, I was as happy as I had ever been. I had previously thought that there was no greater feeling in the world than the soft warm touch of being blown by a talented beautiful woman. But after subsisting and drifting on the boat, after a 4,000 mile journey to the Cape Verde islands, the feeling of stepping on to dry land, having money and freedom actually topped it. I immediately sat down to a meal in the best restaurant I could find, and started to work on a new plan.
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Everybody in Mindelo minds their own business. People are poor, and most people around the port seem to have done a thing or two outside of the law to put food on the table.
So when I showed up at an office Eugenio recommended, asking for a Cape Verdean passport, the only question was whether I had the equivalent in roughly $5,000 cash that was required. I walked out an hour later with a semi-valid Cape Verdean passport under the name Luis Heitor.
Then I opened up an account at Eugenio's bank and loaded it up with funds transfered through my attorney in Lisbon under my new name.
Then I paid to have my boat repaired and refueled. Nobody even batted an eye when I explained that I had to abandon it hundreds of miles out to sea and had come to port in my little fishing boat. As long as I had the funds, they were happy to help. No questions. I had the feeling I was safe here. Which was an immense relief after such a long time. I had been feeling like a hunted animal ever since Mexico City.
Lastly, the most valuable thing of all. A duplicate satellite connection on my boat. This one registered under the name Luis Heitor out of Cape Verde. I could communicate again! I was able to freely email, and even talk on the phone with my lawyer. My days of drifting alone at sea would be coming to an end, but I decided not to push my luck too far. I was going to head back out to sea in a few days and work out the remainder of my plan.
Next Story: Perfect Pussy (Coming Soon)
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