The plane lands in Cape Verde and the air smells like salt and sunlight. The archipelago sits in the Atlantic like a string of scattered dreams, halfway between Africa and Brazil. You’ve got 48 hours, a pair of sandals, and the vague hope of coming back slightly more tanned and considerably more relaxed. Let’s not pretend you’ll see it all — there are ten islands and each has its own personality disorder — but you can definitely make a weekend feel like an escape from the universe.
If this is your first time, start on Sal. Everyone does. It’s the most developed island, with beaches so smooth they look Photoshopped and locals who could teach masterclasses in not hurrying. Santa Maria is your base — part fishing town, part laid-back resort, with pastel houses, sandy streets, and bars that think closing hours are optional. Drop your bags, switch your phone to airplane mode (for once, literally), and walk to the pier. Fishermen are hauling in tuna the size of your torso while barefoot kids jump into turquoise water. A man sells grilled octopus from a metal tray, a dog sleeps in the shade of a surfboard, and the Atlantic hums like it knows secrets you don’t.
Start with a late lunch at Chez Pastis, a pocket-sized restaurant hidden in a side alley. Order the grilled grouper or the tuna tartare, and while you’re at it, a glass of white from Fogo Island — yes, the volcanic one. The waiter will tell you it’s local, and it actually is. Afterwards, walk barefoot along Praia de Santa Maria, which stretches for miles, dotted with kitesurfers and the occasional overconfident tourist who thinks sunscreen is optional. The ocean is warm, the wind smells faintly of salt and rum, and time starts melting in the sun like an ice cube in grogue.
As the day starts to fade, head to the pier again. The sky turns violet, then gold, and the locals gather for evening music. Someone always plays a guitar. You might not understand the lyrics of morna — the national sound of Cape Verde — but you’ll feel it anyway. Melancholy mixed with sweetness, like nostalgia on a beach holiday. Grab a cocktail at Ocean Cafe and watch the scene unfold: travellers with sand in their hair, locals laughing in Creole, a rhythm that makes you forget tomorrow exists. Sleep early or don’t sleep at all. It’s that kind of place.
Morning light hits differently here. It’s brighter, lazier, and slightly too honest about last night’s cocktails. Have breakfast overlooking the ocean: fresh papaya, passion fruit, and strong Cape Verdean coffee that can wake a coma patient. If you rented a jeep — and you should — drive north toward Pedra de Lume. Half an hour later you’ll find a volcanic crater filled with water saltier than the Dead Sea. Locals swear it heals everything from bad knees to heartbreak. You float effortlessly, arms outstretched, staring up at a cloudless sky, thinking this must be what retirement feels like.
Back on solid ground, make a stop in Espargos. It’s not postcard-pretty, but it’s real. Kids chase footballs through dusty streets, women sell mangoes under umbrellas, and murals colour every wall. Climb to the lookout point on Monte Curral — the view takes in all of Sal, a perfectly flat pancake of earth surrounded by endless blue. Lunch back in Santa Maria at Barracuda, right on the beach. Order grilled lobster or cachupa rica, the slow-cooked national stew of corn, beans, and whatever the chef felt generous with that morning.
If you’ve still got energy, drive to Buracona in the afternoon, on the island’s northwest coast. It’s a natural pool carved into volcanic rock, famous for the Blue Eye — when the sun hits the water at just the right angle, it glows like a sapphire. The waves crash theatrically against the cliffs, and you realise that nature does drama better than any Netflix show. On the way back, stop at Terra Boa, the island’s famous mirage field. On hot days, the horizon fills with phantom lakes shimmering in the distance. It’s like the desert teasing you. Locals joke that it’s the most disappointing swimming spot in the world.
Evening sneaks up on Sal quietly. The sky turns cotton-candy pink, the wind slows down, and the bars start humming again. Dinner at Morabeza Beach Club feels like something out of a film you once wanted to star in. Candlelit tables on the sand, grilled tuna, soft jazz floating in the air. Afterward, wander back through Santa Maria’s sandy streets. Someone will inevitably invite you to dance. Say yes. You won’t regret it, even if you have no idea what you’re doing.
Day two deserves something bolder. If you’re ambitious, take an early flight to Santiago, the largest island and the heartbeat of Cape Verdean history. The plane hop takes less than an hour, but it feels like a time warp. Where Sal is all beaches and breeze, Santiago is lush, loud, and full of life. Hire a driver from Praia and head straight for Cidade Velha. Once the capital of Portuguese West Africa, it’s now a UNESCO site dotted with ruined churches, cannons pointed toward the sea, and cobblestones older than most countries. The ruins of the old fortress still watch the horizon like a tired soldier, and the streets tell stories of sugar, slaves, and resistance.
Lunch at Restaurante Pelourinho, which overlooks the old square. Try the catch of the day with banana fritters and spicy malagueta sauce. Afterwards, wander through the pastel alleys, past the old cathedral and the pillory where history got ugly. There’s no sanitised version of Cape Verde’s past, and that honesty makes it powerful.
If you prefer nature over history lessons, drive north instead into Serra Malagueta Natural Park. The road winds through green mountains and tiny villages with names you can’t pronounce but will always remember. Stop at a roadside stall for coffee grown right here in the highlands, thick and sweet as syrup. There’s a hiking trail that leads to a ridge where you can see the ocean on both sides of the island — a reminder that no matter where you go, you’re never far from water.
Back in Praia, take an hour to stroll through the Plateau district. It’s a lively mess of colonial buildings, markets selling everything from dried fish to handmade baskets, and street musicians who play as if the city were a stage. Grab an espresso at Quintal da Música and stay for the live bands that appear without warning. Morna, funaná, coladeira — each rhythm tells you something about joy and survival. Dinner here too. The grilled tuna with mango salsa might actually ruin all future tuna for you.
If flying between islands feels like too much effort, you can stay on Sal and still have a spectacular second day. Start with a lazy morning swim at Ponta Preta, a quieter beach north of town where the sand squeaks under your feet and you can watch kite surfers perform acrobatics you’ll never attempt. The water is warm, the horizon endless. Then make your way to Murdeira, a sleepy fishing village with volcanic cliffs and a perfect crescent bay. Order lunch at a seaside shack — grilled moray eel if you dare — and watch locals repairing nets in the sun.
In the afternoon, book a half-day catamaran trip. The boat glides along Sal’s coast, music playing, drinks flowing. There’s snorkelling if you feel virtuous, and lounging if you don’t. Sometimes dolphins show up uninvited. The captain will insist you try grogue, the island’s sugarcane spirit, which tastes like the tropics got tipsy. By sunset you’re back in Santa Maria, salty, sun-kissed, and slightly sentimental.
Spend your last evening with your toes in the sand at Sal Beach Club. The lights twinkle, the waves roll in like applause, and you’re already planning the next trip in your head. Order a final plate of grilled prawns, one last glass of white, and let the night stretch out. Musicians drift from table to table. The stars above Santa Maria look close enough to touch. You realise Cape Verde doesn’t rush anyone — it just waits until you’re ready to slow down.
When morning comes, the plane takes off over a sea that looks too blue to be real. You think about all the things you didn’t do — climbing Fogo’s volcano, visiting Santo Antão’s green valleys, dancing till dawn in Mindelo. But that’s fine. Cape Verde works best unfinished. It leaves a little salt on your skin, a rhythm in your head, and a promise that you’ll be back when the world feels too noisy again.