With his sailor knife, he cut one of these plants and tasted the juice pouring from the cane. Surrounded by the long and pointy leafage that covered the sky 3 meters tall, he witnessed the unique combination of colours of these canes, he felt in his hands the texture of their knots.
He went into the canefield and stayed there for a moment. On top of this magnificent natural terrace, rose a plantation of sugar cane. Surrounded by acacias, eucalyptus, pine trees and wildflowers he was always accompanied by the sweet murmur of running water in the canal and in the far, the waterfalls added their chime, Brabo walked up to find a valley opening to the sea.
He set on a long walk trailing the steep path drawn by an old watering canal (a levada).
He now craved to visit the places of this story and listen to whoever could tell more of it. Here, Brabo understood that this reality was no more, but even 5 centuries later, one could still hear – and maybe see – the echoes of this memory. At his peak, in the 16th century, it was common to see Neapolitans, Basks, Catalans, Turks and Flemings (Brabos’s ancestors), all in search of a rare and expensive product, the one they called “white gold”. An important date, because it set in motion the production and commerce of sugar and with it brought great development and profit to this land. Saccharum is the Latin name for the sugar cane, brought to the island, precisely, in 1425. The extraction, now at the refinery, of the sweet juice (garapa) up to the production of the famous solid sugar. And from here on, like the invisible thread that lead to this point, the entire story of this place unrolled before him: a story of dense sugar cane plantations, of the hard work of picking, defoliating, cutting and carrying the canes. What did those images of canes of green, brown and violet tones mean? What was the meaning of the textured floor and the brownstone columns invoking an industrial age? Entering the wide hall, serenely lit by an imposing metallic chandelier, Brabo arrived at a gallery with a number that also intrigued him - 1425. There was a story there and Brabo wanted to know it.Īs he entered the place his first sensation was that he was now in an exclusive, somehow mysterious place. It sounded like a magic password, another version of “open sesame” to a secret place in the middle of the sea. Over its entrance, a word intrigued him: SACCHARUM. Laying on high pillars, the building appeared to be hovering the water.
And certainly because of that, his own story started to change the very morning of his arrival.Īs he came closer to land, a most elegant construction caught his eye – there, between the sharp slopes, in shades of green and volcanic stone, and the ocean, cobalt blue. After all, it was stories he was chasing for, through all the years sailing around half of the oceans. Brabo, as he was known, just wanted to rest, to let by the storm that seemed not to be interested in that piece of land, and soon after set bearings to the south.īesides being a reserved man, a lone wolf of the sea, Brabo craved the stories of the places he visited. Like the Portuguese navegadores that came to these shores 600 years before, so did he arrive, led off course by a storm, on his descent through the African coastline. One day, a solitary sailor, hailing from Antwerp, dropped anchor at the south coast of an Atlantic island in a natural haven forged by sea and fire, a refuge for vessels, travellers and seabirds.