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A Man Named Goat
We awoke to a jangle of goat bells. I sleepily looked at my watch and noticed the date was February 13: the day before Valentine's Day. Saint Valentine's Day had long held special significance for me (being a romantic at heart, I had proposed to Sharon on a Valentine's Day) - and there I was, in the middle of a pasture without a card, a bouquet of roses, or a box of chocolates. Travelling by bicycle certainly did put a kink in one's style. I pondered what I could do to show Sharon how much I loved her. The hollow bells rattled discordantly again, closer than before. I shelved my reflections and rose to pack our soggy belongings. Rain had hosed down during the night. In fact, the sky was still overcast, cloaked in bat-coloured clouds that hung over our shoulders like Dracula's cape. "We could bill ourselves as rainmakers," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "We're like an international relief effort. I'm sure we could bring rain to the Sahara." "I hope your farmer friends appreciate this," Sharon said, squeezing a jet of water from our rain fly. It had taken us a little longer than usual to summon rain, but when we had, it was in spades. The Rain Riders (as I suggested we call ourselves) saddled up and pushed off into the cool air. The coastal road rose and fell in a series of undulations as we made our way northward. At the top of one rise, we came across an elderly gent and stopped to chat. Near him, on the road's shoulder, stood two milk cans so old and dented that even the dents had dents. His transport was parked in the ditch, patiently chewing a bit of yellow grass. But rather than a saddle on the donkey's back, there was a strange-looking wood and leather contraption. Closer inspection revealed it was fashioned to hold a milk can on each side. The man and his props made an interesting-looking affair. "Fotografia?" I asked. The old man grinned, and nodded it was okay to take his picture. As I got out my camera, a milk truck barrelled up and screeched to a halt beside us. Two men in white lab coats jumped out. One fellow held a microscope-like instrument and busied himself inspecting a drop of milk from one of the farmer's milk cans while the other fellow unravelled a hose from the back of the truck, dipped it into the milk cans and sucked their contents into the truck's tank. The dairy employees scribbled in a log book and sped off. The shepherd began to load his empty cans onto his donkey. Securing one of the milk cans into its holder, he looked at me and offered a shy smile. I snapped his picture, thanked him, and rode off with a wave. It wasn't long before we caught up to a rambling shepherd. "Buongiorno!" we lustily greeted him, puzzled as to where his sheep might be. The Little Bo Peep rhyme flitted through my head as we continued on our way. In half a kilometer, we rounded a corner and I had my answer. The herd was directly in front of us. Their peaceful amble didn't last long, however. As usual, at the sight of our bicycles they became frightened, and the whole herd of critters broke into an unfettered romp down the highway. We didn't want them to get too far ahead of their master, so we pulled to a stop on the shoulder and discussed our best course of action. "Maybe we should just wait until the shepherd arrives," Sharon decided. When the sheep realized we weren't chasing them, they calmed down and resumed their walking pace. A car puttered up behind us. "I have an idea," I said. "Sheep are used to vehicles, right? You've noticed they don't become skittish when a car passes them? Maybe if we huddle right behind this car, we can race past the sheep without them noticing us," I rationalized. Sharon thought it was a better option than waiting for the shepherd to show up. When the car passed us we glued ourselves so close to its rear end we were in danger of becoming bumper stickers. We blasted past the sheep at 30-plus kilometers per hour without them even noticing us. I shook my head. "What silly beasts," Sharon understated. The coastal route was filled with world-class views. I stopped at one exceptional vantage to take a picture and hopped over a fence to get a better composition. Walking along, framing the scenery in the viewfinder, I stumbled over some rocks. I went down hard. My hand reflexively shot out to break my fall. Not only did I wrench my wrist, but I very nearly smashed my camera. "Just call me Goat," I called back to Sharon as I picked myself off the ground. "I was thinking of calling you something else," she replied sarcastically. Safely back on my bike, I pedalled along gazing down at the rocky coastline below us. Sharon spied a camp spot on a small ledge and we called it a day. Two feet from our tent, the cliff dropped a hundred meters to the churning sea below. "What a view!" I breathlessly marvelled. But deep down I thought: That's the trouble with small tents- they fit almost anywhere. |
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