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29 Speed Bump Ahead The guard was right. There was plenty of cold water. I endured a quick chilly splash. If there was one thing I hated, it was a cold shower-especially when I was paying for it. We ate while standing up at the outdoor dish washing sinks. They didn't have picnic tables-or toilet paper-or hot water. But it did have three armed guards. There were amenities. A tennis court. Locked. A pool. Drained. A store. Closed for the season. Exiting the camp office, Susan's face betrayed her bewilderment. It had cost us twentyfive bucks to get our passports back. Talk about extortion. Hadn't they heard of offseason? We headed for Sines. Missing a sign, we ended up in a deadend fishing village. The bumpy road to the fishing village was a monstrosity with more patches than road. The deformed pavement was laid over old cobbles. As we neared town a sign warned: speed bump ahead. They must be kidding I thought. With my butt doing a jig atop my saddle I laughed at the absurdity. Sure enough, a speed bump appeared. I had to look carefully to pick it out from the other ruts and bumps, but that hump went completely across the road. Was it really necessary? We ate lunch beside the boats and nets mired in the lagoon, then endured the same route back before locating the road we should have taken in the first place. Each day we scheduled plenty of time for unscheduled sightseeing. Some of our impromptu excursions turned out to be the most memorable. I could hardly wait until we hit countries that didn't use our alphabet. Costa Azul sucked. The campgrounds charged us extra for our three bikes, making us more expensive than a car. Campgrounds assessed fees per tent, per person, and per vehicle. We had been putting our two tiny tents side by side and throwing our tarp over top and getting away with being charged for one tent. I hated Costa Azul's crappy roads. I hated the blowing sand. I hated the money grubbers who stuck their hands out for everything. Along Costa Azul we weren't persons, we were dollar signs. We arrived at the campground in Sine at three thirty. The checkin opened at four. The clerks, on siesta, stood around talking, ignoring us, knowing we wanted to check in. To pass the time, we opened our maps to see how we could depart the tourist area crap. Four oh five rolled around. The checkin grubber slid open the window. We continued to study our map. The clerk repeatedly cleared her throat in our direction. Looking at us, she pulled an acrimonious face and threw her arms into the air. Cursing us, she walked out of the booth to where the other two "workers" were and proceeded to loudly discuss gringos. I sauntered over to the empty booth. When I asked them to do something for me, they said, "Minyata, minyata." It turned out minyata was only when I wanted something done. I was sick of the whole scenario. We checked in and found a spot at the back of the park. I unloaded my gear and headed for centro to buy groceries. On the way to the store I passed the checkin grubber walking down the street. I saw her at the store. She was supposed to be working until seven. So that was why she wanted me to hurry up and check in. She had grocery shopping to do-on company time. I bought rice and wine. When I found my way back to camp, Sharon and Susan looked at the rice bag and said, "What does this 'animali' mean on the label?" It was for animals. I had bought pet food. Oh well, at least it was on sale. Again, we concluded the day by stuffing ourselves to the point of being uncomfortable and slightly intoxicated. At that point we climbed into our tents and passed out. |
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