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Ain't No Sippin' Wine
The cold wind intensified during the night. Unfortunately, our windbreak trees, being the leafy variety, didn't do much to keep the howling wind at bay. And our flapping tent fly hadn't made for a restful night. "It was definitely a two-earplug night," Sharon groaned upon arising. Our fingers numb, we fumbled with the stove, and used our sole remaining bottle of water to make hot chocolate. I cradled the hot mug in my hands. It felt ever so good. The rising sun infiltrated our tiny woods, and helped to thaw us. We packed up, and as our timing would have it, arrived back at the main road just as a shepherd and his flock were passing. "No wonder there's so much sheep doo on the road," Sharon commented dryly as the little darlings filled the odd pothole. "I'm thankful I have fenders!" I said, my face frozen in a half-grin. Instead of pushing through and scaring the herd - our bicycles usually threw them for a loop - we retraced our previous evening's route a short distance to examine a nuraghe we had passed. Our brief side-exploration would give the sheep time to get to that day's mowing assignment. As we turned onto a road leading to the nuraghe, a battered Fiat pulled alongside us and stopped. The checker-coated driver rolled down his window. His gold-capped teeth flashed in the sun, mesmerizing us as he spoke. But his attempt to communicate verbally wasn't successful. He abandoned the spoken word, and motioned for us to follow him. As if following the Pied Piper, Sharon and I trailed off behind the stinking exhaust, thinking it was awfully kind of him to lead us to the ruin. But after a few hundred meters he turned off the pavement and onto a barely discernible dirt road. A sign for the nuraghe showed we were to stay on the main road. Both Sharon and I stopped, hesitant to go who knew where. Mr. Gold Teeth stopped, reversed his car, and with a glinting smile, indicated "It's not far now." Thus persuaded we resumed our ludicrous journey. I had a niggling suspicion we weren't taking the most prudent course of action. It wasn't long before we passed two overturned burned-out cars. I had a distinct sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Oh-oh. Were they the last unfortunates to follow him? Sharon gave me a glance that suggested she was having the same thoughts. But still we followed, jostling over rocks and around slippery mud holes. The only consolation being we were with the infernal wind. In about a kilometer, Mr. Gold Teeth stopped beside a cinder-block abode, garbage and bottles strewn about the small yard. A large tethered German Shepherd eyed us silently from a trodden grassless patch. "Casa," Mr. Gold Teeth said, waving towards the building. This was his house? Oh boy. I could tell we were in for a treat. A peculiar sound drifted in the spirited wind. Across the road, a garden plot was being guarded by an eerie army of Sprite-armed scarecrows - their green pop bottle arms clacked against one another in the wind, swinging wildly, as if warning us to flee. "I have a bad feeling about this," I hissed. Mr. Gold Teeth propped open the gate. We descended into the yard and leaned our bikes against the concrete structure. Mr. Gold Teeth ushered us inside the one-room building. Sharon and I stood uneasily, unable to see in the dark interior. In the room's far corner a small fire glowed. Usually a fire would cause me cheer - especially when it was so cold outside - but my adjusting pupils discerned the outlines of three hunched figures around the hearth. So we weren't alone. I wasn't sure whether to be thankful for that or not. Islanders had horrified us with stories concerning murderous shepherds, and had advised us not to trust them. The favourite tale involved a gang of mountain shepherds who had beaten, robbed, raped, and murdered a young Swedish couple. Without a doubt, these were shepherds, and my Spidey senses were tingling. Mr. Gold Teeth had moved into the middle of the room and was introducing us to the men. The only word I caught was "Canada." Two men jumped up and grabbed chairs. Motioning to come and sit, they thumped the chairs down in front of the fire. Warily, we approached. When we got within spitting distance, I could see that all three men were missing several teeth and sported grizzled week old stubble. Is this what murderers look like? I sat in one chair, clutching my handlebar bag. (It contained my passport, money, and camera; I never left it unattended.) One old mongrel pulled a coin from his pocket, and pointed to my handlebar bag. I didn't understand what he said. Had he asked: "Is that where you keep your money?" Did he want me to pay him for the use of the fire? Was I about to be robbed? "No," I said firmly, and he didn't say any more. Sharon and I sat on edge, smiling at our captors, and tried to act nonchalant and confident. I broke the silence when I remembered some Italian, and told them our names, that we were married, and that it was cold outside. In less than thirty seconds my entire repertoire had been exhausted and it was back to sitting in silence for more long uncomfortable minutes. Suddenly, with an inspirational flash, I remembered the Italian phrase book I had in my handlebar bag. I eagerly pulled it out. "A phrase for every occasion," its cover boldly proclaimed. Our saviour! I excitedly leafed through the contents, searching for the section: "Polite Things to Say to Shepherds." And quickly discovered the authors hadn't anticipated tourists' awkward moments in shepherd huts. I flipped to the heading: Meeting Others. Ah, that sounds like the section I want. The first phrase I laid my eyes on: "Would you like to dance?" hardly seemed appropriate. There wasn't even any music. "My place or yours?" Somehow, that didn't seem to suffice either. After all, we already were at their place. "Do you come here often?" Who made up these books? I wondered in dismay. Didn't they know there were far more shepherds on Sardinia than discos? I was perplexed. I couldn't even find: "Don't hurt me, but you can do anything you want to the girl." Disheartened, I set the falsely advertised publication aside. Fortunately, Italian is largely a gestural language with a few words thrown in for good measure. We resorted to pantomimes and sign language, and learned Louie was a shepherd (no big surprise there). He owned three hundred sheep. Another fellow, also named Louie, had two hundred sheep. The third chap didn't say how many sheep he had, but, judging from the smell of him, he was definitely a shepherd with a few sheep of his own too. The two Louie's, erratically waving their arms, pointed to the third fellow. They said Louie was 64-years-old, married, and had two children. I was flabbergasted. Not that he was 64-years-old. Or even that he was married with a couple of kids. But rather, there we were, in a mountain hut with three shepherds and all three of them were named Louie! What are the odds of that? "Uncle Lew would fit right in," I whispered to Sharon. From that point on, our conversation was fraught with much arm waving, pointing, and Louie this and Louie that. How they kept everyone straight was beyond me. But, I guessed, at least it was easy to remember everyone's name. Then it struck me: Louie Louie was a song about two shepherds. Three-Hundred-Sheep-Louie, tiring of the morning aerobic workout, announced he had work to do. I seized the opportunity to make our escape and sprang to my feet. "Fotografia?" I asked. They agreed. Since I had no flash, we would all have to go outside. All six of us trooped out into the shabby yard. A chicken coop adjoined the main enclosure. For the photo shoot, Married-With-Two-Kids-Louie grabbed a turkey and proudly held up the old gobbler - its wings outstretched. "Sharon, get in the picture," I urged. "No," she answered. "I tower over them." "I thought it would make an interesting contrast." "It'll just ruin the shot," she said. The three shepherds were typical Sardinian men: short. (Shorter even than most Sardinian women.) Nine out of ten Italian jockeys came from Sardinia. It wasn't surprising - most were about five feet tall and skinny as rails. I clicked the shutter, and prepared to make our getaway. But Mr. Gold Teeth insisted we return to our twelve-by-eight cinder block cell. I don't know why, but we complied. A gala-sized ceramic wine jug sat on the floor - the bottomless cask was so prominent, I don't know how I hadn't seen it before. Louie of two hundred sheep fame poured a plastic tumbler full and handed it to me. Sharon got off lucky there was only one glass. The wine looked vile, murky and yellowish, like liquid waste. I took a swig. "Sheep urine," I gagged, wrinkling my nose. I crossed my eyes at Sharon and took another slug. My stomach churned. "Buono!" I said. I choked down half the battery acid and realized if I drank any more I would puke. I was sure the stuff had melted the enamel right off my teeth. "I won't have to brush for a month," I said to Sharon. I ran my tongue over what was left of my front teeth as I casually set the half-full cup on top of the freezer behind me. Married-With-Two-Kids-Louie scooped the tumbler off the freezer and downed the remainder in one guzzle. It was no sipping wine! He immediately refilled the glass and thrust it, brimming, back to me. Dang! I managed to refuse it without insulting him too greatly. He knocked that one back in one grand slam too. I was beginning to understand how shepherds withstood standing outside in the freezing cold wind all day. They were loaded on anti-freeze. Married-With-Two-Kids-Louie wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, belched self-satisfactorily, then pointed to a basket of chicken-shit stained eggs and asked if we wanted some. Eyes wide, we shook our heads. Next to the eggs sat a chunk of cheese so blue-veined I was sure it had lines running back to Louie XIV. Two-Hundred-Sheep-Louie pulled a ring of shepherd sausage off a ceiling hook and hung it on a nail inside the fireplace. "Country cooking at its finest," Sharon muttered. We feigned fullness, and said we had just eaten before arriving at their fine establishment. I reckoned it was time to attempt another break. Mr. Gold Teeth still guarded the exit. Against his vehement protests we got outside, grabbed our bikes, hopped on, and amazed ourselves by scaling the steep pitch out of the yard. Adrenaline is incredible stuff! We were free! That was, if riding straight into a horrendous headwind was freedom. We bounced down the rocky path, past the two burnt-out cars, and arrived back at the main road eager to put some distance between ourselves and our new friends. |
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