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Roman Baths
It was growing late. We kept our eyes peeled for possible camping and almost immediately spied an open gate. With the San Giusta soccer field practically inviting us in, we found an out-of-the-way spot behind the main building. We had just finished cooking pasta when tires crunched on the gravel parking lot. Our hearts skipped a beat. As their headlights winked out, we hoped we wouldn't be discovered - or worse, entertained for several hours by the disorderly jubilations of rabid fans. We remained ensconced in our hidden location, quiet as sports fans supporting a losing cause. The Men's changing room light snapped on. A rectangle of yellowish light seeped from a high open window, and cast its pale pall on our tent. Belt buckles clinked, zippers zipped, baritone voices teased. Even though I couldn't understand their words, their tone conveyed it was typical locker room banter. Field floodlights blinked on illuminating the playing area in harsh whiteness. Sharon and I huddled together, glumly awaiting our fate of a rowdy few hours, already hearing the men's shouting and macho grunting. Fortunately, the visiting team and bleachers full of screaming soccer aficionados failed to appear. It was only a practice. Practice ended, and the locker room showers came on. Steam began to waft out the open window. I thought Sharon was going to have a convulsive fit. Hot water! Even I couldn't help but wonder if the players would mind if we used the showers. But we remained where we were, suspecting it might be too much of a shock for them to witness two foreign cyclists stumble out of the dark, murmuring zombie-like, "Shower . Shower ." The next morning, I checked the locker room door. Alas, it was securely locked. "It looks like our quest for a proper shower isn't over yet," I said. "Maybe we'll be lucky and find something in Fordongianus." Heading there, we passed through small town Ollastra. A wrinkled old gent stood on the sidewalk clutching a bouquet of buttercup-yellow blooms to his chest. I smiled at the contrast between the softness of the bouquet's fresh petals and his hardened weathered features. Men in Europe definitely worried less about appearing effeminate than men in North America; I couldn't imagine that scene back home. I was happy for it though - the old chap's festive cluster certainly brightened my day! We left Ollastra, and navigated a three-kilometer climb. It was only the first week in February, but the Mediterranean sun was already generating more than enough heat. Partway up we both overheated, and stopped beside a farmer's unassuming abode to strip off our fleece pullovers. I folded mine into a small bundle and stuffed it into my already crowded front pannier. When I looked up, the resident farmer and his wife were standing at their front door. They greeted us politely, then immediately turned their conversation to more pressing concerns. "What we need most is rain," the old farmer told us. "No rain, no money," his elderly wife concurred. The old farmer apparently believed we possessed awesome rainmaking abilities (and what cyclist doesn't?), for, in what surely must have been a bid to the rain gods, he uncorked bottles of cold beer and offered them to us. Holding the brown bottle to my lips, I tilted my head back and swigged the contents, silently cursing a bead of sweat that trickled off the bridge of my nose and into one eye. The resultant blink temporarily blocked the sun in the cloudless sky. Confident it would rain within forty-eight hours, I handed the empty bottle back to the farmer. The farmer's 90-year-old mother appeared at the door, curious to see who the visitors were. The stooped old woman, clad head to toe in traditional black widow's smock and black lace kerchief covering her head, nodded a pleasant hello. "That's gotta be uncomfortably hot in the summer," I said as I wiped away another errant drop of sweat from the tip of my nose. The farmer went to a laden orange tree beside us and busied himself plucking fruit. When he had picked an armful, he unzipped my rear pannier and began to stuff it with the beauties. When he ran out of room, he handed one to each of us. I peeled mine and was alarmed to note the segments were streaked with red - exactly like the "bad" ones from Calasetta! I asked the farmer if the oranges were all right. He affirmed they were fine; they were merely a different variety. I popped a slice into my mouth. It tasted like any other orange. Realizing the mistake I had made thinking the Calasetta woman had sold me spoiled oranges, I silently begged forgiveness for the unkind words I had uttered. Under an azure sky we arrived in Fordongianus, and were delighted to discover the town had Roman baths! Sharon was especially ecstatic and eagerly looked forward to soaking until she was spic and span; she could barely wait to indulge in the town's therapeutic radioactive salt waters. We found the new bathing area about two hundred meters from the original Roman baths. Hot water from the first thermals was piped to the new enclosed baths; their containment was in direct contrast to the open, airy structure that preceded them. Perhaps Roman-day folk were less inhibited than our modern generation? Sharon, towel in hand, joyously skipped down the steps to the baths and pushed on the door. It didn't budge. It was locked. I felt her disappointment when she found they weren't open. However, I wasn't going to let a little closed sign deter me. I went around behind the bathhouse, and as I suspected, found hot water gushing from an overflow spout. While Sharon waited (she wanted the real thing), I stripped off my clothes and set about washing myself under the spout, one limb at a time. When I had nearly finished, Sharon appeared and informed me she had deciphered the posted notice. "There are four stalls," she said, "and they're rented by the hour. During the summer months the baths are open all day, but since it's winter, the baths are only open one hour a day from 4 till 5 pm." I looked at my watch. It was already half past three. "I'm going to wait for the baths to open," Sharon said decisively as I continued to happily scrub-a-dub-dub. When I finished bathing my bod in the radioactive springs, my legs felt totally rejuvenated, and ready to churn out more kilometers. I returned to the other side of the bathhouse and found Sharon still waiting patiently beside the bathhouse door. She looked a little jealous when she saw I was already fresh and clean. While Sharon waited, I hopped on my bike and went off to tour the lower ruins. I glanced at my odometer: we had cycled exactly one thousand kilometers on Sardinia (and not one flat!). The hot springs had been a worthy reward, but I hoped I didn't have to cycle another thousand kilometers before finding my next bath. The original Roman baths, built in the 1st century ad, lay in decrepit rot. A tall security fence surrounded half-decayed porticoes and arches, and two oval spa pools still holding water languished in slimy green putrefaction. Below the dingy spa, outside the fenced area, were two new concrete circular pools, each fifteen feet in diameter and a foot deep; their edges lined with bricks set flat with the ground. Even though the day was hot, steam hovered over the pools in testament to their intense heat. A garden hose gurgled cold water full-blast into the first pool in an effort to cool the scorching water. Around the second pool a gaggle of Moroccan women knelt, their backs bent double as they scrubbed clothes. A gray, soapy byproduct exited the lower pool, and flowed, steaming and bubbling, into the adjacent Tirso River. The Tirso was one of the few rivers we had seen that looked natural - even trees grew along its banks. (Admittedly, it was also one of the few rivers on Sardinia that even contained water.) I made the most of the situation, and gazed at the tranquil scene daydreaming it would be a marvellous spot to swim. After a few minutes of watching the washerwomen's sudsy water burble placidly into the river, I noticed ripples beneath the murky waters. Disturbing ripples. Non-fish-like ripples. Rather, snake-like ripples. My skin crawled. Eels? I suddenly lost any interest in taking a dip. Instead of swimming, I gathered our clothes into a large garbage bag and hauled them over to the self-service washing facility. Ready to tackle the task, I knelt down at the pool edge and pulled on a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. My handwear must have been a cheerful colour - at least I imagined that was why they caused much merriment amongst the local washerwomen. I imagined I looked extremely professional as I took out my small bag of powdered soap. The circle of washerwomen clucked their tongues and shook their heads, as they might towards any societal misfit. Wordlessly, a nearby washerwoman passed me her bar of soap. I gripped the hard chunk and smeared a wide streak across my first article. The washerwomen nodded their approval as I dipped my shirt into the scalding water, rubbed it harshly against the concrete, then splashed it into the pool to rinse. Wow! Was that water ever hot! (Our tourist brochure stated water bubbled in at a blistering 60 degrees Celsius!) Whew! Good thing I have rubber gloves on, I thought. Even with the cold water hose cooling things down it was still plenty hot. How the heck do those washerwomen have their bare hands in there? They must have darn tough skin or no feeling left in their hands. I scrubbed away, making slow progress. On my right lay a small heap of washed items; on my left, a large pile of the great unwashed. I silently gave thanks that I didn't have to wash clothes by hand every day. After a short time the muscles between my shoulder blades knotted. And my knees were killing me. What a tough way to make a living, I thought, as I glanced around at the happily chatting washerwomen. A few moments later, the entire group stood and walked away en masse, leaving their baskets of laundry. Was it quitting time? Abandoned, I felt like Cinderfella left to slave by my lonesome while the others went off to the ball. I hoped it wasn't something I had said. I was down to my last item, my trapezius burning as if a red-hot poker had been stuck in it, when a shadow fell across my work. Thinking my fairy Godmother had come to rescue me, I glanced up. Sharon was standing over me, inspecting my handiwork. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be soaking?" I enquired. Sharon's face was crestfallen as she related her sorry tale of woe. Apparently, the ensemble of washerwomen had gone to bathe at the baths. "They rented one stall for the hour," Sharon said, "and the thirty of them used it. Two other townspeople rented two stalls, and I was shown the remaining stall. The tub in it was gross. It was so scummy I was worried I might catch something from it. So I declined," she finished sadly. Hoo boy. I knew how much Sharon was looking forward to that relaxing soak and scrub. I didn't know what to say. I wrung out my final pair of shorts and got up to stretch. "How about if I help you wash up," I offered. I got our ten-liter water container off my bike and submerged it in the pool. When it was full, it was so hot I could barely hold onto it. I had never seen plastic so pliable. I lugged it beneath a nearby bridge, and set it on a concrete abutment, making a mini-shower. As I stood on the lookout, Sharon washed up in solitude - except for one guy who spied us from his hilltop backyard. "Boy, it'd be impossible to be a criminal on Sardinia," I said. "There's always someone lurking about." By the time Sharon finished washing and rinsing her hair it was early evening. We ignored the sign that warned of flash floods (under a clear sky we weren't concerned about being swept away in the middle of the night) and pushed our bikes into a treed area alongside the river. That farmer would have to wait for our promised rain. |
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