From Cane to Culture: The Story of Grogue in Cape Verde

A Spirit Rooted in the Land

The sugarcane used to make grogue arrived with the Portuguese in the 15th century. Like much else introduced during that era, it took root in the archipelago and became something of its own—particularly on the humid, mountainous island of Santo Antão. There, fertile valleys and labour-intensive terracing made it possible to grow cane despite the dry climate elsewhere in the islands.

For centuries, islanders grew, harvested and pressed cane by hand. It’s still done much the same way. During the legal production season—from January to July—cutters in wide-brimmed hats carry thick stalks down steep footpaths. In dozens of family-run trapiches (sugar mills), oxen circle wooden gears to crush the cane, releasing a green juice called calda. From there, time and microbes take over.

The calda ferments naturally in open barrels for up to two weeks, bubbling gently under the tropical sun. No yeasts are added, and no shortcuts taken. What follows is an art: distillation over fire in copper stills, where temperature, timing, and touch determine whether the result is mellow or caustic, drinkable or dangerous.

The Taste of Island Life

Freshly distilled grogue is raw and uncompromising—white, clear, and often hovering around 50% alcohol. Locals drink it neat, often in tiny glasses, often early in the day. Others blend it into ponche, a gentler mix with lime, molasses, or local honey.

Beyond the burn, grogue carries flavours of the land: cut grass, green banana, wild mint, smoke. Each batch is different—one farmer’s field may taste drier or more floral than his neighbour’s, depending on soil, rainfall, or even the breed of ox that turned his press.

Among foreign spirits, grogue is closest in lineage to Brazil’s cachaça or the French West Indies’ rhum agricole. But it’s wilder, less refined—more farmer than factory. That’s its charm.

Grogue as Livelihood and Legacy

On Santo Antão alone, there are said to be over 800 trapiches, most passed down through generations. They are humble places—shacks tucked beside cane fields, with soot-blackened pots, wooden paddles, and rusted funnels. Production is mostly for local sale or family use, but a small handful of certified grogue-makers now bottle for export under labels like Barbosa or Vulcão.

This shift toward international recognition is new. For most of its history, grogue was a backyard product—unregulated, untested, and sometimes unsafe. In 2015, Cape Verde passed its first national law regulating grogue production. Distillers must now comply with seasonal limits, hygiene rules, and alcohol purity standards. EU-supported initiatives like Vagrog II are helping to train producers and test samples, slowly professionalising the industry.

Still, most grogue consumed in Cape Verde remains informal, unlabelled, and hyperlocal. You might buy a litre from someone’s grandmother, in a reused water bottle, sealed with string and a prayer.

A Drink with a Social Life

Grogue is as present at a rural funeral as it is at a beach party. It opens conversations and closes deals. It is passed around in celebration and sipped in solitude. On the islands, grogue is not exotic—it is familiar, ordinary, expected.

It’s also tied, sometimes tragically, to social issues. Alcohol dependency has been a persistent concern in some communities, especially among young men in areas with high unemployment. The very accessibility and potency that make grogue a cultural symbol also make it a public health challenge. The state has begun education programmes and encourages certified production—but habits, like sugarcane, are slow to uproot.

Meeting the Makers

To truly understand grogue, you must see it made. You must watch as the cane is lifted by hand into the mill, smell the juice as it thickens in the vat, and listen as the distiller knocks on the side of the pot to check if it’s ready.

In Paul Valley or Ribeira do Cruz, some distillers welcome visitors. You can taste grogue straight from the still, still warm, or sample aged versions that rest for years in oak barrels, mellowing to a deep amber. Some bottles are infused with herbs—mint, rosemary, anise—or even percebes (goose barnacles), for the brave.

The most remarkable thing isn’t the machinery or the method. It’s how unchanged it all feels. These are not tourist setups; they are living workshops. Old men stir with splintered oars. Sons learn the flame from their fathers. The cane grows back every year.

Looking Forward

Today, grogue finds itself at a crossroads. There’s growing demand abroad from connoisseurs seeking authentic, small-batch spirits. But the infrastructure is thin, the logistics difficult, and the branding nearly nonexistent. Certification helps, but threatens to exclude those who cannot afford compliance.

And yet grogue persists—because it must. It is too rooted, too entangled in daily life to disappear. Whether in a bar in Praia, a kitchen in Mindelo, or a trapiche high above Ribeira Grande, it continues to flow.

Clear, burning, vital—like the islands themselves.