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28 No Joke Sharon and Susan shopped at the Pongo Ping market for fruit and veggies. Ragged gypsies working the market repeatedly hounded them for money. Leaving Setubal we caught the ferry across the Sado River to Trois. I sat beside a short weatherbeaten fisherman who looked as if he had spent his entire life at sea. As we disembarked, grease on the winch transferred itself to my front pannier cover, then crept onto my pant legs. Amazing stuff. The road was patched and potholed, but flat along the peninsula: an important consideration for Susan. She had been having trouble with our original inland route. The Atlantic was on our right; an estuary on the left had women working a muddy rice paddy. I was astounded at the size of two stork nests sitting on top of the tavern. The nests were easily four feet in diameter. One lanky stork sat atop the nest. It could deliver a baby no problem. A beach campground was four kilometers away. But after a kilometer the road turned to sand and became too loose to ride. We turned back and went to a campground located six kilometers past Medina surrounded by orange groves. It was a huge place with over a thousand campsites. We arrived as darkness set in and were greeted by two guards who didn't speak English. Instead of taking just one passport like the other campgrounds had, they wanted all of our passports. I said, "This must be a joke." One guard said, "No joke." We surrendered our passports and they told us to camp anywhere. "Hot water?" I asked, too late. "No comprehende." "Quiente aqua?" "Huh?" "Nao frio aqua?" "Oh, mucho frio!" Apparently I wasn't getting through. |
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