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34 Cheese and Peanuts Susan hadn't slept much. She had a stuffy head cold. The dogs had wailed constantly throughout the night. Susan wouldn't wear ear plugs. She was afraid she wouldn't hear someone coming. Personally, I preferred not to hear them coming. A red sun crawled over the distant hazy hills. We were on a knob, watching sheep make their way to graze. Hills surrounded us. We chewed bread smeared with chocolate Nutella. The terrain was a constant bone rattling series of ups and downs. Gray clouds and a south wind blew rain in our faces, wearing our nerves. In Alamo we went into a café. Thinking it impolite to barge in and ask for the toilet, we sat down and ordered three café au laits. Then, I asked for the "lavabo" and was directed to the hand washing sink. Sharon tried "toilette," and was told "kaput." One of those internationally understood words. We drank our coffees and left, looking fondly towards the flower beds. We went into the main town area, comprised of a dozen houses. A fella walking on the street brought us to an unmarked bar a couple of houses away. It was interesting there were no signs in any of the small towns. The villagers knew where everything was so they didn't need signs. We looked for crates or bottles piled outside doorways to help us identify places of business. And our noses directed us too. We became trained at sniffing out pleasant aromatic places like bakeries or horrific places like butchers. The proprietress was out back. When she came to the counter, the men motioned for us to ask her. She said, "No toilette." The men said, "Yes there is." Arguing followed. Then it became clear. The water was shut off all over town that day. With a wave of my hand I intoned, "Santo Espirito?" "Si," they replied in unison with vigorous nodding of heads. One fellow held up five fingers and said, "Sinko." It was five kilometers away. It felt much farther with the rough road and uphills. Alongside the main thoroughfare we stopped outside Casa Verde restaurant. It was closed. Sharon spied a cement cubicle. "Is that a washroom?" I thought it resembled a cold storage shed. Sure enough, it was a toilet. Sharon was an expert at spotting a biffy from a hundred paces. Every toilet had a scrub brush beside it. I began to think every person did a little scrubadubdub when they finished their business. The toilets were always in such pristine condition that had to be the case. I seated myself and peered out an eight inch slot at a garden of orange trees. Sticking my arm through the window I plucked an orange. I held up my prize to Sharon and said, "I always wanted to do that." "I'll bet." After Santa Marta, cutting off principal route 122, the secondary road was significantly smoother. But as we climbed into the hills it deteriorated to cobbles poking through chunks of pavement. The incredibly steep pitched climbs made my thighs burn and the fast out of control downhills loosened my nuts. We left the Alintego area and entered the Algarve resort area. Wind lashed our faces. Then it rained hard for a few minutes-just long enough to soak us. A steep winding downhill dropped us into Alcoutim beside the Rio Guadiana. An opposing Spanish town, Sanlucar de Guadiana, was directly across. A fort crowned the hills in each town. As we ate lunch, a dog came sniffing, its skinny ribs poking through its skin. I tossed it a chunk of horrid hard bun I was eating. The dog rejected it. Dogs were smarter than I gave them credit for. It liked the cheese and peanuts though. Sharon said, "You're going to have the whole town's dog population over here in a minute if you keep it up." Leaving Alcoutim we opted for the secondary road that followed the river. We rationalized the scenery would be great, and the road downhill, following the river flowing to the Mediterranean. Not so: the terrain was another series of brutal uphills. My salty sweat burned my eyes so much I couldn't see the scenery. But I knew, like the last few days, it provided plenty of stereotypical National Geographic images. It was the Portugal I had envisioned-only more traditional than even I had dared hope for. Field after field of cork trees, olive trees and eucalyptus. Along the river there were more orange, lemon and lime orchards. Vineyards lined the riverbanks. Sheep and goat bells dinged as we crested hills. Crusty herders with knobbly wooden canes stared at us with perplexed expressions. The towns were crammed with whitewashed villas topped with red clay shingles. As we entered towns we noticed old men gathered in the town plaza or leaning against the wall of their house, wooden cane at their side. They had the look of being on permanent siesta with all the time in the world. They stared at us with expressions of disbelief as we bounced through town on the cobbled streets. Susan's energy reserves depleted before we hit the main road. It had been a tough day for her combined with lack of sleep, a head cold, wind, rain, and over twentyfive hundred feet of climbing in sixty kilometers. There was more climbing to do before we reached Castro Marim. Once there, we looked over at the stadium, but after convincing Susan there were no more hills, we continued into Villa Real. At seven thirty, in the dark, we arrived at Monto Gordo campground. We asked for a reduction, but as soon as the clerk saw our Canadian passports she said, "No discount." Susan showered while Sharon and I walked to the Super Mercado. We made short work of the escudos Susan had handed us with, "Go crazy!" I still couldn't believe how expensive food was. Everything was inflated except fish, bread and wine. Sharon and I erected our tent just before a rare coastal lightning and thunderstorm flooded the baked earth. We could make it rain anywhere. The cacti should bloom. We planned to cook supper, but with the passing squalls threatening to dampen our stove we opted for cereal, bread and wine, dining inside our tent accompanied by thunder and lightning flashes. Susan sat in her tent an arm's length away. Sharon passed goodies across the tent fly to her while she sniffled and sneezed. |
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