(This is Part I of a two-part series on Cape Verde, a small African nation which defied expectations at 2026 FIFA World Cup.)
Cape Verde’s heroic performance at the 2026 FIFA World Cup has transformed this tiny Atlantic archipelago into one of the most talked-about countries on the planet. With a population of barely 600,000 people—smaller than many cities around the world—the island nation stunned football fans by holding its own against giants such as Spain, Uruguay, and Argentina
The achievement was remarkable not merely because of the results on the field, but because it reflected the same resilience, self-belief, and ability to punch above its weight that have long characterised Cape Verde and its people.
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Cape Verde before FIFA World Cup 2026
When I visited Cape Verde in December 2023, football glory was still a distant dream. Yet, as our aircraft descended toward Praia, the capital, I caught an early glimpse of a nation that seemed comfortable defying expectations. From the window of the descending plane, Praia revealed itself not with grandeur, but with a quiet charm that seemed to rise entirely from the Atlantic. First came the sea—an endless sweep of deep blue, flecked with restless whitecaps, stretching unbroken to the horizon.
Then, as though weary of its own vastness, the ocean yielded to land: Santiago’s Island’s southern edge, dark and jagged, where volcanic cliffs met the surf in a long, foaming handshake.
Praia seemed modest, almost delicate—a capital without pretension, perched at the edge of an ocean vast enough to swallow it in a single breath. It is not as grand as Paris, or New York, or even Casablanca. But it has the Atlantic at its front door, volcanoes at its back, and a habit of looking unbothered by both—which is probably a much better definition of grandeur.
When I visited Cape Verde in December 2023, football glory was still a distant dream.At the seafront Pestana Trópico Ocean & City Hotel, the receptionist looked at us the way a doctor looks at a patient. He could not believe we were staying two nights in Praia.
“Tourists,” he explained, “if they lose their way and stumble into this city, immediately flee north to the beaches. Praia has nothing.”
As we had no urgent need for a sun tan—we said Praia suited us fine. This only deepened his concern. A sagacious gleam entered his eye, the kind that says: If I don’t save these people from themselves, they’ll ruin Cape Verde’s reputation forever.
He then produced a grand plan: we should cut our stay short, check out after breakfast, drive through the mountains to Tarrafal, return by the east coast, and head straight to the airport to catch an earlier flight back to Dakar.
So persuasive was he that we agreed without a fight. In 15 minutes flat, he had cancelled our second night, rebooked us on a new flight, and summoned a car and driver for a “magical mystery tour” of Santiago Island.
“You don’t have to worry,” he assured us, puffing up with pride. “Your driver, Lindo—he is my brother.”
Unique in Africa
We set out from Praia on a Sunday morning, the kind of day when the city looks too drowsy to remember it is the capital of anything. The palm-lined avenue soon gave way to the weekly market, which was less a marketplace and more a street carnival disguised as commerce.
Once we escaped Praia, the land grew parched and serious. A fine two-lane road, smooth enough to shame Indian highways, cut through sandy-brown hills dotted with bushes that could not decide whether to be green or gold.
Lindo, fair of face, didn’t look African—and I told him so.
“That’s because I’m Creole. We Cape Verdeans are a mix—you could say the Portuguese brought the recipe,” he said, grinning.
“Yes. First, the Portuguese came in the 15th century, looking for land to plant their flag. These islands were empty—no people here. Then they brought slaves from Africa, 500 kilometres away, to work the plantations. Over time, Portuguese men mixed with African women, and so… Creole. One Portuguese plus one African equals one Cape Verdean. That is our formula. We are not one or the other—we are both. We eat cachupa, we sing morna, we speak Creole. We are Africa, but also Portugal. Sometimes both at once, sometimes neither.”
“And today, Creoles are the majority?” I asked.
“Yes. Almost all Cape Verdeans are Creole now. That’s why when you look at us, you will see all shades—from coffee dark to café-au-lait to something close to European. We are like the beaches here: black volcanic rocks mixed with white sand, making something unique.”
Lindo
“That’s quite a history lesson,” interjected Anand, my travel companion.
“Ah, but it’s also a survival lesson. We were born from two worlds, and now we belong to both. Which is why we know how to smile, even when life gives us nothing but wind and salt,” said Lindo, in flawless English.
“It must be a peaceful country,” remarked Anand. “Any coups here?”
Lindo, one hand on the wheel, the other waving about like a flag, explained why Cape Verde had avoided the coups that afflict so much of Africa.
“You see, my friends, Cape Verde is the only country in Africa where the army has nothing to do. We have no diamonds. No oil. No gold. Nothing to make a general rich. What would they seize power for? A bag of beans? A herd of goats?” chuckled Lindo.
“In Nigeria, the generals fight over oil. In Congo, they fight over diamonds. In Guinea, they fight over everything—including the chairs in parliament. But here?” He spread his hand toward the hillsides dotted with cassava and maize. “No treasure, no coup. We are too poor to fight. That makes us rich in peace.”
I suggested that perhaps this sounded a little fatalistic, but he waved me off.
“No, no, it is logic. Even the politicians know: if they steal too much, the whole island finds out by lunchtime. Small country politics is very personal. You cannot lock up your opponent if he lives across the street and your wife borrows sugar from his wife. Believe me, this is how our democracy works—by gossip.”
A Drive Down History Lane
He swerved to avoid a stubborn goat and continued without pause.
“After independence, yes, we had one party. But still, we had elections. And the losers were allowed to complain loudly—because their mothers went to church with the winners’ mothers. How do you put a man in prison when you must sit next to his family every Sunday? Impossible! That’s why we democratised quickly in the 1990s. It was either that, or spend the rest of our lives pretending not to see each other in the market.”
He leaned back, satisfied, as though he had personally designed Cape Verde’s constitution with his own pen.
“Other African countries may keep their oil and diamonds. We will keep our beaches. Less blood, more sunburn. And the only thing our army has to worry about is getting the football score right.”
I had to admit: it was the most convincing political science lecture I had ever received from behind a steering wheel.
(The author is a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and Explorers Club USA, and Editor of ‘Indian Mountaineer’. He is also the founder of Bharatiya Yuva Shakti, an organisation that ensures good leadership at the village level. He tweets @AkhilBakshi1. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)
