Beaches, history and dramatic scenery await in overlooked Sao Tome and Principe
During the colonial era (1470-1975), Sao Tome was first a slaving port and then the centre of a chocolate empire. Portugal’s pretty, creampainted fort, Sao Sebastiao, is still there. Inside, the country’s history is told in five small rooms, beginning with shackles and Madonnas, and ending with a faith-healer’s cures.
The Santomeans we met were unhurried people, friendly by default. Students would cluster around our hotel’s Wi-Fi, and I remember a vendor with an oil drum on his head, another balancing a fish. Sometimes we ran into the president himself, who was often weaving through the crowd in his cavalcade of ancient Toyotas. Our driver, Lance, seemed to know everyone. Perhaps that’s not surprising. At 196,000, the entire population of the country is about that of a small European city.
From the city, we set off in all directions. Almost immediately we’d be enveloped in forest. Trees cover almost 90 per cent of the archipelago, and often the only way through is the new road provided by Brussels. Every now and then we’d cross a magnificent river. Usually, its black lava banks were laid out with washing, and they looked like long, thin quilts, wriggling off into the mist. For most Santomeans, it’s a simple life. There are no buses, no cinema and no daily papers. It’s a good day when there’s meat, and the washing dries.
Around us, a beautiful world unfolded. We drove to the west coast first. The forest thinned, and baobabs appeared, like cartoon trees. Near the end of the road, we reached Mucumbli, our tiny eco-lodge, high above the bay. Overnight, hundreds of dugouts would assemble in the water below, and, at dawn, they’d all be there. One morning a boatman took us out through the fleet, and on the other side were dolphins.
Mucumbli’s owners also had 19 donkeys (‘our lawnmowers’), and a dozen bicycles for hire. I opted for wheels, and pedalled off down the shore. In Neves, some canoeists had landed a gigantic marlin, and the fishwives were cackling out orders. Most villagers were Angolares, the descendants of runaway slaves. Famously unruly, many still worship spirits and refuse to work the land. ‘And that,’ said Lance, ‘is why they fish.’
Back in the car, he drove us south. The great rocas, or plantations, were always a