Principe’s runway is a narrow cuff of fresh Tarmac. It edges the deep-green, velvety jungle, above which fingers and knuckles of volcanic rock punch the sky. Staggering out of the small 10-seater plane, blinking in the African sunlight of a new day, we are a motley crew. There’s a trickle of tourists, including myself; a besuited prodigal son in shiny shoes bearing gifts for his long-lost cousins; a brace of Portuguese former colonists; some pensioners who worked for the great Benguela railway in Angola; and their geographer grandson, whose T-shirt reads, “Null Island: Like no Place on Earth”.
Bom Bom Principe