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Charades
Morning light revealed deep trenches beside our tent. "Boars have strong tusks," I observed. Sharon shook her head. Even she couldn't believe she hadn't stirred. "Exhaustion has its advantages," she allowed. "The tent could have collapsed and I wouldn't have known." I rolled up our soggy tent, saturated from the heavy rainfall. It weighed twice as much as usual. "Aren't you the lucky one?" Sharon kidded, as I bungeed the dank bulk onto my rack. As we pushed our bikes back to the rock wall that lined the forest road, thorny bushes snagged our panniers. The viciousness of the flora served to remind me that Sardinia was a harsh land where only the hardiest survived. We climbed a short distance, then began going in the right direction: downhill. We had camped not far from the summit - no wonder it had been so cold. Zinging downhill carefree, I suddenly had to slam on my brakes and skid to a stop. A chain hung across the road, waist-high, threatening to cut me in half. Its original intent hadn't been to chop inattentive cyclists in two, but stop traffic, warning of an approaching train. But instead of dinging bells, flashing lights, and motor-controlled descending-arms, there was a woman. I imagined it to be a low stress job, working in the forest, listening to chirping birds all day. There couldn't be all that many trains, could there? The train wasn't yet in sight. She unhooked the barrier, and waved us across. We continued zooming downhill. Not far away we spotted the train chugging towards us, labouring almost as hard to go uphill as we had. The conductor nonchalantly waved, and we continued our free-fall. We coasted out of the mountains and onto flat land. It would have made ideal farming, except for all the rocks. Ten-foot-high piles of rocks stood in the fields - testament to the hours (or years) of backbreaking labour the farmers had done. I was amazed at how many stone heaps there were (if Sardinians ever wanted to construct more nuraghi there was no shortage of building material). In addition to the massive piles were rows of stone fences sectioning the larger field into smaller pastures. And the number of rocks that remained on the ground was mind-boggling. Sardinians had far too much rock on their hands! Seeing the piles of rocks, Sharon was reminded of the times when, as a youngster, she and her siblings helped their father clear his fields. "Dad used to tell us kids: 'After we pick rocks, we'll have a wiener roast!' It always worked! We happily picked rocks for hours with that reward in mind." I noted that Sardinian farmers still had many hot-dog roasts to go. We cycled on till Nurallao, where we stopped for lunch in a park. There wasn't a soul in sight. The lack of people made the park particularly inviting - we had grown tired of being constantly stared at while we ate. Maybe it was my table manners? We plopped ourselves down on the grass beneath a couple of palm trees. I bit into some goat's cheese as a bespectacled old-timer with a shock of white hair crossed the road and hobbled over. Despite the abundant sunshine - a total reversal from the previous day's fog-filled sog-fest - he was bundled in a warm coat. He sidled over to us, sat on the ledge next to me, and began to chat. Even though I had wanted to eat uninterrupted, I was happy to see him - anyone with a face that crusty had to have some interesting tales. He didn't speak English, but my Italian was improving, and I was positive I comprehended everything he said. At least sometimes. Maybe. Of course, sign language helped a lot, and, like all Italians, the old gent was a master of charades. He pointed to his cane, and held up three fingers. "I've had this cane for three years," he was saying. Or maybe it was his third cane. Or maybe he had killed three cats with it. Who knew? I nodded and he continued. "I live across the street," he gesticulated. Or maybe he had a friend over there. Or maybe that's where a cat had been run over. This was fun! I nodded again. "There's snow in the mountains," he pantomimed. Oh, too easy, I sniffed. Give me something harder. "A woman I know, lives near Cagliari, speaks four languages, and has travelled around the world." Well, don't look at me - it was his charade. Next, in grand sweeping motions, his fingers pretended to pry open his chest: "I had heart surgery," he was saying. Or he played the accordion. Or he was deathly allergic to cats. Some things were difficult to construe. Whatever he was trying to tell me, I didn't laugh and say "Buono!" I may not have known much Italian, but I had enough sense not to laugh when someone was telling me something I didn't understand and say: "Good!" They might be saying: "My wife just died." Laughter (even a nervous giggle) at an inopportune time was a surefire way to get oneself into trouble. I was sure misunderstandings were the number one cause of wars. The old codger pointed to his timepiece. "It's time to go home to have the lunch my daughter prepared for me." I was good at this! We wished each other well. He leaned heavily on his cane, looked me in the eye, and was off. I had been sitting in the sun the entire time. I glanced at the thermometer on my handlebar bag. It read 30 degrees Celsius. "Boy, we're lucky we're here in their coldest month!" I said. "The summers must be scorching." I recalled what Tony had said: "Even the tourists shouldn't go outside at midday." "We should go for a swim," Sharon said. Sweat beaded my brow. "Sounds like a fine idea to me," I responded. We studied our map and picked out the closest lake. It was near Siurgus - in the mountains. I wasn't surprised. Most of Sardinia's lakes were in the mountains, enclosed by gorges. We set off, trying to convince ourselves that the climb would make the swim that much more refreshing. In a few kilometers we left the sealed road and turned onto gravel. As I bucked along the washboard surface, I wished my bike had shocks. "Are we back in Portugal?" I complained. "This is way better than the roads we cycled in Portugal," Sharon said. She was right - roads on Sardinia had been excellent compared to Portugal's butt-numbing cobbles. We arrived in Siurgus not a moment too soon. We had run out of water a kilometer back. A group of boys played on top of a rock wall. "Acqua?" I called to them. "No acqua," they replied, shaking their heads. The boys made rude farting noises as we rode off. I laughed. "Kids are kids no matter where we go in the world!" We entered the village square and faced a lengthy row of nine elderly men leaning against an eight-foot high rock wall. Looking contented they chatted animatedly, enjoying one another's company while warming their old bones in the sunshine. It looked a great way to spend one's old age. Two boys on bikes pulled alongside us. We stopped, and recognized them as the farters. The lads chattered away. I couldn't understand one word they said. I stood there, staring at them blankly. Judging from their amusing expressions, it was a unique experience for them to meet a mute. They jabbered away some more, eyeing me quizzically. I finally stopped them, pointed to myself, and said: "English." They seemed to understand - at least they stopped their gibberish. I took out my camera and they hammed it up as I snapped their picture. Their hospitality improved immediately. "Acqua," they said, motioning us to follow. When we passed in front of the men, I stopped and asked where we could get water. I wasn't putting all my faith in the young farts. The old gents pointed to the bar on the far side of the plaza. We pushed our bikes over and leaned them against the tavern's wall. Sharon ventured inside with two water bottles while I sauntered back to see if the men would let me take their picture. I held my camera aloft to show my intention, and asked if it was okay. The old men grinned their approval, evidently pleased that someone considered them photo-worthy. I carefully framed the men, the green benches, the high rock wall, and was about to push the shutter when a woman, completely garbed in traditional black, sallied forth, walking in front of the men. The old men's voices held traces of indignation as they yelled at her: "Get out of the way, old woman, can't you see we're having our picture taken!" She continued sedately on her way, ignoring the elderly rapscallions, looking neither left nor right. I caught her square in the middle of the frame. Sometimes the best shots were the unplanned ones. I thanked the men for allowing me to take their picture, and they introduced me to their group's patriarch, Señor Gomez. Apparently, the younger men considered themselves spring octogenarians. I doffed my hat reverently and solemnly shook Señor Gomez's hand. He stood on the curb, peering up at me through his hat brim, a gleam in his eye and a smirk on his twisted kisser. At 94 years of age, he was still undoubtedly full of verve and vitality. Sharon returned from the bar with full water bottles. We took long gulps, and replaced them in our holders. Turning around, we saw several of the old men had wandered over and surrounded us. With the help of the young boys and a middle-aged woman, they asked us questions while inspecting our gear. We did our best to satisfy their curiosity with a combination of pigeon Italian and hand signals. The woman, astute at guessing our Italian pronunciation, relayed the information to the old-timers who nodded their heads in fascination. "Vino?" one fellow enquired, inviting us inside the bar for a drink. Wine and cycling, especially in the hot sun, didn't mix well. It made us lightheaded and dizzy. To the old men's delight, Sharon mimed a wobbling cyclist. They guffawed at her crazy antics, then asked: "What do you drink?" "Acqua," I replied, pointing to my water bottle. One old man scoffed. (I may not know much Italian, but I know a scoff when I hear one. And that was clearly a scoff.) Evidently, water wasn't high on their list of consumables. Maybe we had hit upon their secret to longevity? They persevered, naming off a long list of what they considered acceptable drink. Sharon and I finally wised up, and decided to practice our slow-down-and-live philosophy. We consented to having a beer with them. They danced with excitement upon realizing their persistence had paid off, and escorted us into the bar. In the dim light our eyes, adjusting from the bright sunlight to the dark interior, made out men playing cards. As our entourage wove its way between the tables of card players they glanced up, greeted us, and immediately resumed their concentration. Apparently, entertaining lycra-clad foreign cyclists was a common everyday occurrence. The young boys had tagged along. One old man tried - unsuccessfully - to shoo them back outside. Reaching the counter, we were again surrounded by the old men. The youngsters stood on the fringe, staring at Sharon. They must have been wondering why she was in the bar - she was the only female in the place. As we discovered in Portugal and Spain, a woman in a rural bar was uncommon. I gave Sharon credit. Each time she ventured into a drinking establishment, she furthered women's rights. "Ching-ching!" we proclaimed, hoisting our glasses and clinking them with our new compadres. The cold beer was savory. The hot day made it slip down effortlessly. It wasn't long before we quaffed another. We brought out our map, and showed them the route we had taken so far on Sardinia. The tiny men crowded around, discussing where we had been. They pored over the map a long while trying to pinpoint their village. One old man finally turned to me, and loudly explained, "We're all blind!" I turned the map right-side-up for them, refused their offer of another draft, then pinpointed Siurgus for them. Half an hour, and another beer later, Sharon and I tottered off to continue our lake search. In the neighbouring town of Donigale, there was another rock wall identical to the one we had left behind in Siurgus, and, like Siurgus, it too was lined with old Sardinian men. "How did they get here so fast!" Sharon exclaimed, pretending she thought they were the same men we had left behind in Siurgus. "Maybe they know a shortcut?" I answered in jest. Laughing, we yelled "Ciao!" and waved to them like they were long-lost pals. We eventually came to the lake, but it was situated far below the road. And the water, enclosed by a ring of sharp gravel, was low and scummy looking. It wasn't at all inviting. As well, the day had cooled and swimming didn't sound nearly as appealing as it had when we were sweltering. "I'm not swimming there," Sharon confirmed, and we continued on our way. I hoped the gusty wind was pushing us towards a sheltered camp spot. After our boar intrusion I needed a quiet night to recharge my batteries. In an hour, we came to a small plot of trees next to a plowed field. The deciduous trees made a poor windbreak, but since we were between two small villages, I felt it would be a good place to spend the night. "We won't be disturbed here," I said, as I leaned my bike against a tree. "This is perfect." Barely dusk, I crawled inside the tent, and got ready for bed. I had just gotten comfortable, when, on an invisible side road, three cars and a motorcycle stopped to drink some beers. I couldn't believe it! There we were, in the middle of nowhere, and someone had chosen that exact spot to meet? I lay awake, unable to sleep, as the clink of beer bottles continued into the night, and took the time to reflect on past strange encounters. Two vacationing Australians we had met in Spain - Rae and Nigel - had told us: "There is no perfect spot." It was true. Like us, they were free-camping (unlike us, they had a motorhome) and each evening they would scout a town for a perfect spot to park their motorhome for the night. "We would be awakened by any number of occurrences," Nigel said, laughing in his good-humoured Aussie accent. "One time," he recalled, "we were in a tiny village and found an idyllic spot beside a little church. We thought it was perfect. But, I'll tell you mate, it was hardly that." He sniggered, then continued, "Every fifteen minutes, the bloody church bells gonged! Midnight shook the motorhome!" Nigel laughed so heartily he had to wipe tears from his cheeks. While Nigel composed himself, Rae took over: "Once we camped in a deserted wood it turned into a parade route. That parade probably happened only once every hundred years, but that was the night. I was beginning to think we were being watched." I lay quietly, thinking Rae's same thoughts to myself, while listening to the tinkle of beer bottles from the direction of our uninvited guests, and worried that the drunken partiers would discover us. In the distance, a dog barked and my mind wandered again. Not once had we heard anyone tell a dog to shut up. The amount of barking endured in Europe wouldn't be tolerated in North America - too many gun owners. Silence would prevail. I recalled nights I had trouble sleeping because dogs were yapping. When Sharon and I had started free-camping we were paranoid that dogs could hear us. Or smell us. (Or, more likely, both.) We always worried we had camped in their territory, and wondered if that were the reason they kept up the persistent racket. But, as the nights passed, we realized dogs just always barked - often for no particular reason. One would start, another would answer, and they would bay back and forth all night. I wondered if dogs ever woke the next day with laryngitis and wondered "What the heck was I doing last night?" One night in the mountains near Granada in Spain, I had lain awake listening to some asinine dog answering its own echo. What a din! The echo made it sound like a pack of twenty mongrels. When he eventually quit barking, I couldn't sleep. It was too quiet. I had lain awake in the silence, staring at the tent roof, waiting for it to bark. I was tempted to rouse Sharon and tell her: "Do you know that stupid dog hasn't barked for nearly half an hour?" Another bottle clinked, jarring me back to the present. Car engines sputtered to life, then puttered off into the night. And I finally drifted into dreamland. I slept for an extraordinary long time, then woke suddenly - all that hot chocolate - with an unmistakable urge to water the shrubbery. I scrambled out of the tent thinking it must be nearly time to get up. Under the bright moon, I read my watch: 11 pm. |
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