Day 15: Lajes das Flores

I didn’t bother having breakfast before leaving Santa Cruz. If my experience yesterday was any indication, there would be no point. I was just ready to leave. On to Lajes!

I had originally applied for an artist residency in a house here, but nothing came of it. Literally, there was simply no response. My check for the application fee was never cashed, my emails to them bounced, and their phone number seems to belong to someone else now. Although their web site is still up, they seem to have vanished. So I found a place on airBnB and couldn’t be happier about it. And in typical Azores fashion (“It’s a small place”) it happens to be owned by the same cab driver who brought me from the airport into Santa Cruz. César Fonseca and his wife Cidalia have remodeled their attic space into a one-bedroom apartment with all mod cons: full kitchen, washing machine, comfortable bed, good wi-fi, and a view overlooking the town out to sea. They are incredibly kind and hospitable hosts, and both speak English quite well (they lived in Toronto many years ago). When I arrived, Cidalia was just finishing cleaning the place up and there was fresh bread, local cheese, peach nectar, and a liter bottle of water waiting for me. Home sweet home!

Lajes is a vast improvement over Santa Cruz. Located on the southeast coast of Flores, it’s a much smaller town, but much prettier, with a sweet little public park near the church and every house seems to have a vegetable garden (beans, squash, cukes, tomatoes, potatoes).

Santa Cruz has the airport, but Lajes is the main shipping port on the island. There is a good swimming beach down by the harbor, which was my first destination after a much-needed nap on the comfy couch in my new digs.

There is a fancy new museum that just opened this year and currently has a show of religious art and artifacts from around the island. (Everywhere I go they seem to be building new museums, in the midst of an ongoing financial crisis. How does this happen?) Cidalia works there and showed me around, and also helped me check out a genealogy book from their library on the families of Flores. No trace of our Caetano Freitas in there, and no Avelars at all. There is apparently a Volume II that they don’t have, which may or may not be out yet. A bit later Cidalia brought me a bowl of fresh lettuce, some tomatoes, and a cucumber from her neighbor’s garden. She was worried I might have trouble finding food here since I don’t eat red meat.

In fact, there is an excellent restaurant about a 15-minute walk from here called Casa do Rei, and they even have a vegetarian section on their menu. It’s run by a German family who do an interesting take on Azorean food with an emphasis on fresh and local, and they grow or raise much of what they serve. I’ve been craving a real salad for a while now and got a huge one with all kinds of homegrown veggies, a bowl of delicious mackerel soup, and a really interesting squid salad made with saltgrass (?). The items I saw being brought to the table next to me looked amazing as well.

After dinner I walked down to the harbor again. One of the sounds I’ve been wanting to record are the cagarros (Cory’s shearwater), a seabird about the size of a gull that makes an extraordinary sound. I first heard them on Pico in 2011. I was outside alone at night and it scared the crap out of me. I’ve heard a few isolated ones on this trip, but never close or consistent enough to record. They spend the day out in the ocean, and come to their nests on land at night. There is a place on Faial where you can supposedly walk right up to them, but it was far from Horta and I didn’t have a way to get there at night. The cliffs at the beach near the harbor here looked promising, and César assured me there would be plenty of cagarro action there after dark. I was not disappointed, and recorded for about a half-hour in a few different spots. Sometimes they flew just over my head, maybe five feet above me, their wings completely silent. I’m glad I was able to finally get a good recording, as I was starting to worry it might not happen.

Shortly after I arrived I got a phone call from a woman named Regina Meireles, a cousin of John Vasconçelos, one of the people on the Azores genealogy email list that I subscribe to. John lives in California and we've never met, but he introduced me to Regina via email. She thought my project sounds interesting and offered to meet up in the next few days. Her husband sings folk songs and fado and she said they would be happy to contribute in any way they can. So it feels like things are getting off to a good start here.

Day 14: Santa Cruz das Flores

After a really rough sleep last night, I woke this morning to the sounds of someone moving out of one of the rooms that faces the street. I asked the housekeeper if it might be possible for me to move into that room and she said she’d ask the boss. When I returned from the complimentary “breakfast” (some cheese on a dry roll + pineapple juice served by a surly woman at a cafe a few blocks from here) the key to the new room was waiting on my bed and I very happily moved my stuff from the Laundry Room to the Room with a View. Not a view of the ocean — though I can now hear it and even see it if I stick my head out the window and look down the street — but a view of the street through two windows looking out into the world instead of at the washing machine and drying linens. Given my recent experience elsewhere this would seem to be asking for noisy trouble, but this street is very quiet at night, and almost a dead end, so traffic noise is minimal. And the new bed seems to be at least a notch or two better than the other one, which felt rather like a wooden pallet with a sheet over it. It’s the little things.

By the way, this is the street where I am staying — a politician in the family?

It was kind of drizzling and windy all morning, and at the time when I was supposed to meet Roseanne and August at the port for the boat trip to Corvo it turned into a major downpour. I don’t know if they ended up going or not, but it didn’t strike me as the optimal conditions for an enjoyable outing, so I bailed. I hope they had a good time, whatever they did. Instead, I wandered around the town a bit more. Checked out the old church (1727) that is now part of the museum. They are building a fancy new museum down the street, still under construction, so the old museum is in a transitional state of disarray. No exhibitions up, but they did allow me inside to look around. Very nice. Then I went over to the big “new” church (19th century), which is much more “majestic" (see photo below).

Walked down to the harbor and recorded some nice gurgling sounds of waves coming up through the rocks. I then realized that the waterfront area at the end of my street is called Porto Velho (Old Port). This is of course significant, because it means that Caetano and Maria Isabel very possibly would have started their respective sea journeys to the US here. My efforts to record there were foiled by cars and people, so I’ll go back later.

Eventually the weather cleared somewhat and I went for a swim and made some more recordings at the natural pools as I had them almost to myself today.

In my wanderings I saw a flyer for the Festa do Espirito Santo that starts here on July 20. I will still be around, so may try to make it up from Lajes to record the opening rituals, which involve singing of hymns and solemn processions. That seems like it would be an important piece for me to have — much more interesting than the big party that will happen in the days that follow.

Day 13: Santa Cruz das Flores

Standing in line to board the plane to Flores, the woman just ahead of me noticed my passport. “You from the States?” We began chatting and enjoyed it enough to continue our conversation on the plane. It’s one of those great things that happen when you travel, running into some interesting person under random circumstances with whom who you have an instant rapport.

Rosanne Thomas is a writer (several novels, a memoir, misc.) from Massachusetts traveling with her lovely daughter August, also an aspiring novelist and scholar of Turkish/Ottoman culture. Roseanne is here doing research for her next novel. She didn’t want to give away too much, but one of her characters has some connection to the Azores and she wanted to come absorb some details about the landscape and life here. They are on a whirlwind tour of what sounds like most of the islands, and will only be on Flores for two days. After we landed in Santa Cruz we parted ways, making a plan to meet up at their hotel for dinner later.

The place where I am staying is in the south end of town, near the old harbor, at the bottom of a quiet street (finally!) that ends at the ocean about thirty yards away. There was nobody here when I arrived, so I called the number on the door and a woman said she’d be here in five minutes, which turned out to be more like ten. The room is cheap (€35/night) and huge. Not much of a view out the only window (the laundry area), but I’m not paying for a great view. Or a great bed, apparently. So it goes.

It was a beautiful day, so I decided to go check out the piscinas naturais (natural ocean swimming pools), which has increasingly become a top priority wherever I go. There is actually a swimming area at the bottom of our street, but since it is not listed on the map I opted to check out the one that is, figuring it must be nicer. This turned out to be the case. It’s a really beautiful spot, with extensive paved deck areas where one can lie around and bake in the sun between dips.

It is also the Big Teen Hang-out Spot. When I arrived there weren’t too many people, but within an hour it was looking like a Frankie and Annette movie. Every teenager in town must have been there. At that point I left to wander around town. I pretty quickly found the cemetery and decided to look for maybe-relatives. I met the groundskeeper, a friendly old guy who spoke no English whatsoever. Somehow we managed to have a nice little conversation. I found lots of stones with Freitas (or de Freitas) and Avelar (or Avellar) names, some with both names on the same stone. I have no idea if my ancestors came from Santa Cruz, but it’s a small island and there is a good chance that some of these people were distant relatives.

Santa Cruz is not exactly a charming city. It’s fine, not at all unpleasant, just kind of unremarkable and not especially photogenic. It feels more suburban than any other town I’ve seen in the Azores. I’m staying in the old part of town, which feels a bit more like what I’ve experienced elsewhere — big old church, narrow streets, multi-story common-wall buildings. But as you get farther north the construction becomes newer, the houses larger, free-standing and more spread out. At the far north end of town it gets more industrial, with warehouses and such. There’s a spiffy new soccer field (sorry, futbol), and the old whale factory, which is in the midst of being turned into a museum. The latter has a rather gruesome display out front, a fake sperm whale that has been bisected.

Right next to the whale factory is the Hotel das Flores, the slick new hotel where I’d be meeting Rosanne and August. On my way there I noticed a restaurant called Baleia Ocidental (Western Whale) with a sperm whale painted on the wall outside, about a block from the hotel. We decided to check it out and had a great meal of grilled fish (not sure what kind) with potatoes, salad, bread and cheese. We spent a very enjoyable evening comparing notes and projects, sharing our travel experiences and other interests. I accidentally left my wallet in my backpack at the hotel, and Roseanne very kindly picked up the tab, for which I felt a little guilty but grateful.

My new pals are planning to take a boat trip to Corvo tomorrow, and invited me to join them if there is room on the boat. Corvo is the smallest island in the Azores, and very nearby (you can see it in the above photo of the pools). There is only one village there, with about 350 inhabitants. I’m a little ambivalent about going because there isn’t much to actually do there. On the other hand, it is just right over there, and it would be one more island in the chain I will have visited. So I’ll see how I feel tomorrow, and have a tentative plan to meet them at the harbor in the morning.

Speaking of Corvo, there are two films about it that I learned of recently. One is It's the Earth, Not the Moon, a three-hour documentary that I haven’t seen, made by a guy whose mother is from there.



The other one is North Atlantic, a short (15 minutes) film based on a true story, very moving.



I don't have any personal contacts on Flores, so I'm not exactly sure what will happen here. I might have some contacts through the genealogy world, will wait and see. I'll be in Santa Cruz for two days and then go to Lajes, for the big Festa do Emigrante, when many people who have emigrated return to see family and friends. I'm planning to record at that, and maybe interview some people. Fingers crossed that something cool happens.

Day 12: Last day in Horta

I was expecting this to be a slow day hanging around Horta. No plans other than to relax. On Sunday morning the shops are all closed and the streets are deserted. Maybe everyone was in church. But it seemed like a good idea to go for a swim, so I walked to Porto Pim, half afraid that all of the people I didn’t see downtown would be there. As it turned out there was hardly anyone there, and I had a nice quiet time on the more private beach closer to town. After a swim and some reading I called Angie to say my goodbyes to her and the Cedros folks. A few minutes later there was a call from Lidia, telling me to meet Rui Prieto, the whale scientist, at 7:30 that evening at Casa. I had completely given up on this happening, but as usual it came together at the last minute. I spoke to Vasco for a moment and he said they were going to Capelinhos that day, if I wanted to come along. Having just been a few days before I declined, but it was very gracious of him to offer.

Walking back through town, on a whim I decided to go down to the marina and check out the various whale watching options. It would be pretty lame to come all this way and not actually see any whales, wouldn’t it? Out of several choices, I picked the one that looked the most professional. As it happens, they had a boat leaving in 30 minutes — just enough time for me to go back to the hotel, change out of my swim suit, pop a dramamine, and walk back. And it would get me back in time for my meeting with Rui. It turns out this is the only operation here that uses a hydrophone (underwater microphone) to locate the whales. A very funky, make-shift hydrophone, with a parabolic reflector dish made of styrofoam and duct tape. So we engaged in a bit of tech-talk about that.

We were a small group of seven. The on-board naturalist gave an informative talk about the various species of cetaceans. Soon we were off, following basically the same route as the whale boat to Pico the day before.

One of my theories about whale watching and cetacean research being an outgrowth of the whaling business was proven true when the naturalist told us that they employ one of the old whalers on Pico as a spotter. He uses the same lookout station, looks through the same field glasses, and sits on the same bench as he did when he was spotting for the whalers. And he applies the same traditional knowledge about locating whales and directing boats to them. At one point there was a lot of excited talk on the radio, and we zoomed off, away from Pico and headed out to open sea. Then we stopped and had a listen with the hydrophone. Sperm whales don’t “sing” like humpbacks, but they do make a distinctive clicking noise when they dive, which was picked up on the hydrophone. Eventually we saw the sidewise spray on the surface and cruised over for a look. Of course we couldn’t see much, just the top of the whale with the blowhole and the dorsal spine now and then. But eventually it dove and we got a great view of the flukes. Magnificent creatures!

Once they dive they stay down for a long time — maybe 25 minutes — and you never know where they’ll come back up, so there isn’t much point in hanging around. But they picked up another one on the hydrophone in a different direction and headed that way. Again, success. Then there was a report from another boat near Faial that was looking for a humpback, so we headed off in that direction since it was on the way home. After a little while we found it. The boats always kept a respectful distance from the whales, but in this case the humpback came up quite close to the other boat and did a little semi-breach with the back half of its body. Those folks had a great view. Throughout the trip we encountered many dolphins (three different species) who seemed to enjoy checking us out and playing with us, swimming around and under the boat, popping up right next to us for a look.

Even though I am unequivocally on the side of not killing whales, I have to admit that I did get a little hit of the thrill of the hunt that I’m sure was also felt by the old whalers, and probably by my great-great-grandfather. Pedro, the guy running the boat, confirmed this, and he said they even use some of the same language as the whalers when talking about their “hunt.” I should also add that the guys running the boat clearly love their job and care deeply about the whales. Their enthusiasm was apparent, and I’d say they were at least as excited by each sighting as we were, if not more so. And not just because it meant they'd get paid (they don't charge if you don't see any whales). They are really into it. Pedro was interested in my project and offered to make me some recordings later in the summer if I want. We'll see about that. I did not make any recordings on this particular trip. I didn't have a hydrophone (there would have been boat noise anyway), and any recordings I might have made of the whales blowing would have been drowned out by all the people talking and cameras clicking on the boat.


We got back to Horta with enough time for me to go home and change for my meeting with Rui Prieto. We had a really interesting conversation and he too confirmed my theory about the transmission of knowledge from whalers to their modern-day equivalents. One of the things Rui does in his work is tag whales so they can follow their routes from satellites, and he said he has consulted with one of the old whalers about how to get close enough to the whales to tag them. They also told him about which kinds of whales can be found where, and at what times of year or under which weather conditions. He has a lot of respect for the old whalers, even though he himself is on the opposite end of the equation. Yet he remains sympathetic to the life conditions that made whaling a necessity for them. Rui also confirmed that the whales could easily be heard through the hulls of the ships. But then he shot holes through my other theory about the whalers following the migratory routes of the whales; the reality was that they were depleting the stock and had to keep sailing farther and farther away to find more whales.

Had a nice final meal at Casa and said proper goodbyes to Eugenio and Antonio. Maria slipped out when I wasn’t looking, for which I felt bad. I leave feeling like they all took very good care of me, and I'll miss them and this place.

Day 11: Horta to Calheta de Nesquim, Pico

Today was a big day. One of the other people Márcia Dutra had tried to hook me up with was Pedro Escobar, who is involved with the old-school whale boats, which are now raced with both oars and sails. He had not answered my email, so I let it go.

I have also been in touch with Luís Bicudo, a film maker who made a documentary about the old whalers. I haven't seen it and I haven't met him — I just stumbled upon him randomly while researching this project. But I sent him an email and he has been incredibly helpful and encouraging.



Luís sent me an email about Pedro as well, and offered to get in touch with him on my behalf. When I got home from dinner on Friday there was a message waiting: Meet Pedro at the harbor in front of Cafe Sport at 9 AM tomorrow and ride with them to the whale boat regatta on Pico. And so I did.

Luís had told me about this regatta earlier, so I had already been planning to go. I originally thought I'd just take the ferry from Horta to Madalena on Pico (about 30 minutes) and then rent a scooter and ride out to Calheta for the regatta. Easy. But this plan was much more exciting. Several canoas from Faial would be towed by a gas-engine launch (lancha) to Calheta, at the far west end of Pico, and I was being offered a ride in one of them with Pedro and his mates. 

Pedro is a big grinning bear of a guy, really sweet and funny as hell. He has the best laugh, which you hear often if you hang out with him. He lives in Cedros, so knows Angie and those folks too. Not knowing exactly what to expect, I wasn't adequately prepared for the adventure that lay ahead — shorts, sneakers, t-shirt, sweatshirt, sunscreen, and a day pack full of recording gear. Pedro eyed me with amusement and tossed me an old water-proof jacket. "You'll need this." He also offered me a waterproof bag for my gear. "How wet are we going to get?", I asked naively. "Wet," he laughed back. His mates looked at me like I was a hopeless idiot.

We waited around for quite a while; there was some debate about whether or not we would even go, because the weather wasn't too good and the seas were pretty rough. Finally the word came down: It was on. Pedro was all pumped; "Let's do this thing, people!" There were six boats being towed by the launch, which we had to paddle out to in the harbor and all get roped together. The launch was also carrying everyone's backpacks with dry clothes. I opted to put most of my gear in the pack on the launch and only take a small recorder and my camera; that way, if anything happened I'd still have a dry recorder and iPhone with camera on the launch. The trip typically takes about three hours, and everyone settled in for the long ride, using the sail for a blanket. The first 30 or 40 minutes were pretty uneventful, and I was able to take some photos and make recordings.

But the further out we got, the rougher the waves became. We got doused quite a bit, and the folks in the botes had to keep yelling at the launch pilot to go slower. My guess is that it took us four hours to make the trip. And I am happy to report that Dramamine actually worked. I am normally prone to seasickness, but was totally fine on this trip. The spray in my face kept me alert, and occasionally a big wave came splashing over the bow, totally soaking us. Fortunately the water was quite warm. My eyes stung from the saltwater (and sunscreen), but otherwise I totally enjoyed it. Somehow the recorder and camera came through unscathed.

Finally, we reached Calheta, which I had visited briefly when I was here three years ago. I think we were the last group of boats to arrive. There were already a bunch of boats on the ramp — maybe 20? — and it felt like they had been waiting for us to start the regatta. There was time for a quick break for a sandwich and a beer, and then all of the boats started putting in again. They paddled out through the narrow channel between the rocks, and the launches towed them into position. They put up their masts and unfurled their sails, and it was a lovely sight.

I hung around for a while and then decided to try to make the 6 PM ferry from Madalena to Horta. The buses don't run on Pico on Saturday, and there were no taxis in Calheta. My friends had all encouraged me to just hitch-hike. "It's easy," they said. "You'll be fine," they said. I managed to get a ride up the hill to the main road, and then a ride to the outskirts of Lajes. And there my luck ran out. I sat for a long time, being stared at with suspicion or amusement by a group of old guys who were hanging out in front of the local império (Espirito Santo chapel). Finally I went across the street and asked one of them if there were taxis to be found in Lajes, thinking it wasn't too far of a walk. One of them was very kind and went to his house to call me a taxi, which soon arrived and took me to Madalena. He probably gouged me (€25!), but it actually was a pretty long trip, about 30 minutes, and I was in no position to complain. I missed my ferry and had to wait for the one at 9 PM. While I waited I had an omelet with fries and salad at the tourist joint across from the ferry terminal, and was quite happy to do so.

I don't know how useful the recordings I made on the boat will be, due to wind and the drone of the launch in the background. But it was a fantastic, inspiring experience, and I owe a big fat OBRIGADO to Pedro and his mates for letting me tag along, and to Luís for the hook-up. This sort of thing is indicative of my experience here in the islands so far. People are happy to help, and things just seem to fall magically into place.