When I’m not busy, or on days where I can squeeze it in, I’ve rediscovered yoga in the form of a new studio that just opened. In fact I met the lead yogi, Igor, as he was passing out flyers in my favourite bookstore. I joined up without hesitation when I learned a monthly unlimited pass was just 36 euros. A casual visit is 9 euros so I only had to make it once a week to break even. But in fact I’m one of a small group of very regular practioners – almost exclusively girls, of course – who are blessed with two of the best yoga instructors I’ve ever met. In fact a couple of the girls that attend are yoga instructors themselves.
Perhaps it is there instruction, my relaxed lifestyle, or some other mystic quality, but I’m finding the inspiration of the practices to have a more positive influence than ever, affecting not just my tight, poor abused body, but my very response to life. The challenge of course will be to maintain this once I return home.
The Kite House has joined a partnership with the studio also, so I regularly try to recruit residents to come to the sessions. So far no luck, but I’m doing what I can to support this worthy, fledgling enterprise TheLightRoom.com. Personally I go about 5 times a week, though sometimes that is twice a day!
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Owl Story Bookstore
When I’m not working or going to yoga classes, one of my favourite places is the local English bookstore in Lagos. I’ve mentioned the slightly crazy Scottish guy, Ian, who runs it, in past blog entries; well the more time I spend with him, the more I realize is the best friend I have here. An unlikely combination: he’s 15 or so years older than me, has a very opinionated, harsh Scottish demeanour borne from past military service. However it is front, for he’s a really stand-up fellow who’s just not scared to speak his mind. He’s not afraid to torment or insult his customers. In fact, the one’s that have a backbone and take it in stride are his favourites (I believe I must have passed that test somewhere along the lines, but being me, I didn’t even notice).
He has some great stories to tell about all his past exploits in the restaurant game – he should write a book, as he certainly doesn’t read them!
But he does well enough, and enjoys the human interaction. He’s as gentle as could be to the younger, less ‘worldly’ of his clientele. But we certainly enjoy some light-hearted word-play with those who can play the game.
And he sound rather sound – if questionable – business practices, which are all about pleasing himself. If a customer says something he doesn’t like, he let’s them know. Or kicks them out. Rudely. His thinking is that leaves more books for those he wants to have buy them. And anyone that person tells about their bad experience will either be more undesirables, or will be just intrigued enough to check out this peculiar bookstore!.
In fact he recently shared an email discussion with one such malcontent that ended with Ian telling him to ‘piss off – goodbye’. However he then declared the guys wouldn’t dare write back. I bet him lunch that the guy would write back (if he didn’t, it would just even the score anyway, as Ian had shouted me a lunch earlier that week…while he just drank beers). For two days I was fielding cocky comments about his impending payback until I got the text that admits the guy couldn’t resist biting back with one more retort.
So last Saturday I was in the store near his closing hour (early on a Saturday, conveniently), and he sent me around the corner for beers. So here we were, kicking back in a friendly little bookstore putting away a couple of pints. And then come closing time, he surprised me further by rolling a spliff before heading over to café for a delicious burger – yum!
I think that cemented it, as we had a couple of beers in the store again today, and I’m taking his wife into Portimao to do some shopping tomorrow morning (they don’t drive). And I believe I’ve mentioned he’s insisted I’m no longer allowed to buy any books at the store anymore – I just take what I want!
He has some great stories to tell about all his past exploits in the restaurant game – he should write a book, as he certainly doesn’t read them!
But he does well enough, and enjoys the human interaction. He’s as gentle as could be to the younger, less ‘worldly’ of his clientele. But we certainly enjoy some light-hearted word-play with those who can play the game.
And he sound rather sound – if questionable – business practices, which are all about pleasing himself. If a customer says something he doesn’t like, he let’s them know. Or kicks them out. Rudely. His thinking is that leaves more books for those he wants to have buy them. And anyone that person tells about their bad experience will either be more undesirables, or will be just intrigued enough to check out this peculiar bookstore!.
In fact he recently shared an email discussion with one such malcontent that ended with Ian telling him to ‘piss off – goodbye’. However he then declared the guys wouldn’t dare write back. I bet him lunch that the guy would write back (if he didn’t, it would just even the score anyway, as Ian had shouted me a lunch earlier that week…while he just drank beers). For two days I was fielding cocky comments about his impending payback until I got the text that admits the guy couldn’t resist biting back with one more retort.
So last Saturday I was in the store near his closing hour (early on a Saturday, conveniently), and he sent me around the corner for beers. So here we were, kicking back in a friendly little bookstore putting away a couple of pints. And then come closing time, he surprised me further by rolling a spliff before heading over to café for a delicious burger – yum!
I think that cemented it, as we had a couple of beers in the store again today, and I’m taking his wife into Portimao to do some shopping tomorrow morning (they don’t drive). And I believe I’ve mentioned he’s insisted I’m no longer allowed to buy any books at the store anymore – I just take what I want!
Working for the competition
A couple of weeks ago, Daniel the owner of Algarve WaterSport, contacted GustyKite about taking a group of clients as he was overbooked. This opened up the discussion that led to being their 3rd instructor on days when they were overbooked. This has been happening on quite a regular basis, I’m happy to report, so although I’m not making half the money as with Pedro and GustyKite, I’m busy working. And sometimes we are each taking more than our legitimate 4 students/2 kites limit. Top that off with crazy winds, extreme tides, the occasional gear malfunction, and even some double shifts and it adds up to some tiring days.
The teaching situation isn’t ideal, as they are pushing as many students through for as many dollars as they can collect in their short season. On days when there’s no wind, I don’t work, but they keep going, offering surfing or wakeboarding as alternatives. So I really have it good as far as some work but some free time: my new instructor friends Borat (a fitting nickname) and Martin work basically 7 days a week through their busy season, and have the extra duties of driving clients and cleaning gear from which I’m exempt.
Of course I try to chip in as much as I can, which has won me a place of respect and favour with the whole team, to the point I feel like I’m part of the crew. It is a fittingly humbling experience to be the junior member of the team, but I’m learning quickly how to accommodate their level of business. I still probably put in an excess of energy and effort, trying to move (sometimes in deep water) between the groups of clients to ensure they get the best instruction and experience possible.
I feel, for better or worse, a strong attachment to each group of students, so it is difficult when they cycle out, just to be replaced by another fabulous group of guys and girls. When I hang around the Kite House for a well deserved shower, and to use the internet at night, I’ve been invited to share home-cooked meals and to hit the town partying with the crew. It’s been great fun! And I’m pretty sure I’ve just about accomplished one of the primary objectives of this trip: gaining enough teach experience to upgrade my status to Level 2 instructor. Though I’d be surprised if I ever make it to Borat’s status of Level 2 Senior, which requires something like 120 students and 2000 hours teaching!
The teaching situation isn’t ideal, as they are pushing as many students through for as many dollars as they can collect in their short season. On days when there’s no wind, I don’t work, but they keep going, offering surfing or wakeboarding as alternatives. So I really have it good as far as some work but some free time: my new instructor friends Borat (a fitting nickname) and Martin work basically 7 days a week through their busy season, and have the extra duties of driving clients and cleaning gear from which I’m exempt.
Of course I try to chip in as much as I can, which has won me a place of respect and favour with the whole team, to the point I feel like I’m part of the crew. It is a fittingly humbling experience to be the junior member of the team, but I’m learning quickly how to accommodate their level of business. I still probably put in an excess of energy and effort, trying to move (sometimes in deep water) between the groups of clients to ensure they get the best instruction and experience possible.
I feel, for better or worse, a strong attachment to each group of students, so it is difficult when they cycle out, just to be replaced by another fabulous group of guys and girls. When I hang around the Kite House for a well deserved shower, and to use the internet at night, I’ve been invited to share home-cooked meals and to hit the town partying with the crew. It’s been great fun! And I’m pretty sure I’ve just about accomplished one of the primary objectives of this trip: gaining enough teach experience to upgrade my status to Level 2 instructor. Though I’d be surprised if I ever make it to Borat’s status of Level 2 Senior, which requires something like 120 students and 2000 hours teaching!
Monday, July 12, 2010
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 5: Sevilla
On my way back to ‘work’, I took my Dad’s other piece of advice and made time to stop in Sevilla. I has honestly thinking ‘oh great, another big European city’, yet I really enjoyed it. I was fortunate to approach from the south up a huge, very scenic boulevard, passed many large, impressive mansions, state buildings and university structures, before arriving at the requisite dense, windy old town quarter. Forced by the ever-present one-way road system into a circuit of the old town, I quickly saw all the sites that I eventually determined were the tourist photo opportunities.
When I did park and explore on foot, the first major edifice I encountered was the grand cathedral. Truly massive, yet inspiringly airy and skyscraping from withing, it was astonishing to witness the detail that went into all the carvings everywhere. And there was even a pipe organ fired up with accompanying choir when I arrived, to add aural ambiance to the visual.
I decided not to get sucked into doing a tourist train circuit but instead visited Starbucks (where I could be guaranteed of a long-missed BIG cup of coffee) and settled on an hour of people watching.
Later I took a stroll next to, and over the river from one bridge to the next, and ended up in some beautifully adorned gardens, before quitting the city and its 36 degree heat for the slightly more temperate climate of the Portuguese coast.
When I did park and explore on foot, the first major edifice I encountered was the grand cathedral. Truly massive, yet inspiringly airy and skyscraping from withing, it was astonishing to witness the detail that went into all the carvings everywhere. And there was even a pipe organ fired up with accompanying choir when I arrived, to add aural ambiance to the visual.
I decided not to get sucked into doing a tourist train circuit but instead visited Starbucks (where I could be guaranteed of a long-missed BIG cup of coffee) and settled on an hour of people watching.
Later I took a stroll next to, and over the river from one bridge to the next, and ended up in some beautifully adorned gardens, before quitting the city and its 36 degree heat for the slightly more temperate climate of the Portuguese coast.
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 4: Tanger (Tangiers), Morocco
Having no wind, I explore the old quarter of Tarifa, which provided a very interesting maze of narrow alleys and surprise open air squares nestled away. But I also kept my eyes open for other activities. When I went for a drink with my kiter hitchhiker and his girlfriend, they suggested how cheap it is to go across to Africa for a day. I found an offer for ferry, guided tour, plus lunch for 45 euros – a very good deal.
Next day we boarded at 10am and made the quick crossing from a tiny Spanish outpost to a bustling, burgeoning Moroccan metropolis. Although the tour was very ‘touristy’, I got a good deal out of the quick bus ride – narrated by one guy in English, French, and Spanish in quick succession: impressive.
For one euro, we got a quick ride on camels, which was one of those ‘must do’ experiences for an accomplished horseman, just to compare. Then we got a walking tour of the truly maze-like old town and markets with its hustle and bustle, and fascinatingly foreign sites and smells.
Finally to lunch, and we were well impressed that for our complete 45 euro package, this meal consisted of bread, soup, kebab, then chicken in couscous, accompanied by authentic live music and not so authentic belly dancing. It was great fun!
Finally we were guided through a few shops that made a theatre of presenting their wares: first carpets, then holistic medicines, and finally knick-nack brassware ornaments. I took a serious look at the carpets, but nothing cried out to me. Fortunately I’m very resistant to a pressure sale. Sadly the same wasn’t true for my English-speaking companions: a young guy from Australia and his slightly wiser girlfriend from Canada. She did well picking up a carpet, but probably paid more than double what she could have done given time. And he was suckered into a bracelet that even he regretted 5 minutes later. But they will both value their treasures as much as they overpaid for them.
Others in our group were chased and harassed by street hawkers , but curiously I’ve learned the body language it takes to shake them off with a simple toss of my head. Yet it as fun watching one girl drag one particular vendor for miles, negotiating on a simple bracelet. Even when she’d got him down to 1 euro, she tried to short change him. I thought it was great entertainment!
All in all it was an eye-opener, especially as the King of Morocco was due to arrive the next day, so everything was in preparation with huge red state flags hung everywhere. We finished in the Hotel Continental, apparently being famous as a movie set for Bogart and 007 movies. Back across the water, I enjoyed a nice dinner with my new friends which rounded out the day just nicely.
Next day we boarded at 10am and made the quick crossing from a tiny Spanish outpost to a bustling, burgeoning Moroccan metropolis. Although the tour was very ‘touristy’, I got a good deal out of the quick bus ride – narrated by one guy in English, French, and Spanish in quick succession: impressive.
For one euro, we got a quick ride on camels, which was one of those ‘must do’ experiences for an accomplished horseman, just to compare. Then we got a walking tour of the truly maze-like old town and markets with its hustle and bustle, and fascinatingly foreign sites and smells.
Finally to lunch, and we were well impressed that for our complete 45 euro package, this meal consisted of bread, soup, kebab, then chicken in couscous, accompanied by authentic live music and not so authentic belly dancing. It was great fun!
Finally we were guided through a few shops that made a theatre of presenting their wares: first carpets, then holistic medicines, and finally knick-nack brassware ornaments. I took a serious look at the carpets, but nothing cried out to me. Fortunately I’m very resistant to a pressure sale. Sadly the same wasn’t true for my English-speaking companions: a young guy from Australia and his slightly wiser girlfriend from Canada. She did well picking up a carpet, but probably paid more than double what she could have done given time. And he was suckered into a bracelet that even he regretted 5 minutes later. But they will both value their treasures as much as they overpaid for them.
Others in our group were chased and harassed by street hawkers , but curiously I’ve learned the body language it takes to shake them off with a simple toss of my head. Yet it as fun watching one girl drag one particular vendor for miles, negotiating on a simple bracelet. Even when she’d got him down to 1 euro, she tried to short change him. I thought it was great entertainment!
All in all it was an eye-opener, especially as the King of Morocco was due to arrive the next day, so everything was in preparation with huge red state flags hung everywhere. We finished in the Hotel Continental, apparently being famous as a movie set for Bogart and 007 movies. Back across the water, I enjoyed a nice dinner with my new friends which rounded out the day just nicely.
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 3: The Rock of Gibraltar
Upon hearing of this crazy plan to run away from normal life for 3 months, my father was inspired to recommend I visit the Gibraltar. So I made a day trip to this little English colonial outpost. As such there was even a controlled border crossing with passport checks – a little farsical, seeing how small is the country (outcropping of rock).
Inside, there was a sense of London’s hustle and bustle. One neat feature was entering the main town through the old fortifications by means of the old drawbridge, now converted to a road ramp. But mostly, it as another European city.
But The Rock was a different matter. On a whim, and without a map or signs, I just started climbing stairways until I reached a road. I later learned what I had traversed was a closed public footpath, called by one smart aleck “The Rottweiller Gauntlet”. Oh well.
This no-conventional infiltration of The Rock had its pros and cons. I discovered and climbed the big long vertical wall to the top ridge, where families of Macaque monkeys made themselves a home, supported by wildlife organizations that wanted them to prosper, but avoid the temptation of foraging in the town.
These scamps were fascinating. But just as I was reading so bios on their behaviour and social structure while snacking on a banana, I felt this heavy hand on my shoulder. Surprised, I turned, and next thing my banana was swatted from my hand! One of the little devils had jumped up on me and stolen my food. Turns out they think of humans as inferior in their social hierarchy since we feed them (giving another ‘your’ food being the ultimate act of subservience). Apparently they wouldn’t try this stealing behaviour on one another. If only I’d realized, I would have made that little bugger show me some respect!
The sad part of my unconventional approach to the Rock was that I had bypassed the ticket booths so didn’t have access to some of the old war-time fortifications. But down in the town I did visit the museum which was very informative and complete, so gave a good understanding of all the power struggles back and forth of the centuries concerning domination of the (apparently) strategic outpost.
All in all, a very informative and worthwhile visit to a truly impressive looking landmass. Thanks Dad!
Inside, there was a sense of London’s hustle and bustle. One neat feature was entering the main town through the old fortifications by means of the old drawbridge, now converted to a road ramp. But mostly, it as another European city.
But The Rock was a different matter. On a whim, and without a map or signs, I just started climbing stairways until I reached a road. I later learned what I had traversed was a closed public footpath, called by one smart aleck “The Rottweiller Gauntlet”. Oh well.
This no-conventional infiltration of The Rock had its pros and cons. I discovered and climbed the big long vertical wall to the top ridge, where families of Macaque monkeys made themselves a home, supported by wildlife organizations that wanted them to prosper, but avoid the temptation of foraging in the town.
These scamps were fascinating. But just as I was reading so bios on their behaviour and social structure while snacking on a banana, I felt this heavy hand on my shoulder. Surprised, I turned, and next thing my banana was swatted from my hand! One of the little devils had jumped up on me and stolen my food. Turns out they think of humans as inferior in their social hierarchy since we feed them (giving another ‘your’ food being the ultimate act of subservience). Apparently they wouldn’t try this stealing behaviour on one another. If only I’d realized, I would have made that little bugger show me some respect!
The sad part of my unconventional approach to the Rock was that I had bypassed the ticket booths so didn’t have access to some of the old war-time fortifications. But down in the town I did visit the museum which was very informative and complete, so gave a good understanding of all the power struggles back and forth of the centuries concerning domination of the (apparently) strategic outpost.
All in all, a very informative and worthwhile visit to a truly impressive looking landmass. Thanks Dad!
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 2: Tarifa
Approaching Tarifa, kitesurf mecca for its constant windiness, the landscape became again mountainous, with the promise of rock climbing. And the quantity of wind turbines bespoke of its reputation for wind. I thought I was in for a great time!
Arriving at the coast, there were only a couple of kites up, and not enough wind to get me excited. Strange, as the forecast that drew me here was most promising. So I drove on the town, past a guy with his kite gear who was hitchhiking, through the town with its innumerable kite shops, to the windward shores. But I could find no evidence of beaches in this direction.
So I decided to head back and see if the hitcher was still there. He was, so I piled him and all the gear in the trusty van and offered a ride as we started to chat. He was a novice and new to the town, but confirmed that the first beaches I passed was the entire extent. So we went to visit and saw a stunning site: so may kites pumped up and waiting; truly as far as the eye could see. But no wind.
The windlessness continued for a few days so I did some other side-trips instead, but on my last day I had gone to inspect the local climbing – discovering I hadn’t packed my shoes, so I just played around at the base of some wonderful (and difficult) looking climbs – when I noticed the wind build.
Down again to the beach and still not enough. But later it built enough to use my biggest kite for 2 hours before dying again. And even in that short time, it was very busy. I can’t imagine when it’s enough wind for everyone who had only brought small kites. It was an uninspired session, but fun, and now I can say I’ve kited Tarifa. But would I go back; not necessarily. Maybe in the winter when the storms brew up big waves.
Arriving at the coast, there were only a couple of kites up, and not enough wind to get me excited. Strange, as the forecast that drew me here was most promising. So I drove on the town, past a guy with his kite gear who was hitchhiking, through the town with its innumerable kite shops, to the windward shores. But I could find no evidence of beaches in this direction.
So I decided to head back and see if the hitcher was still there. He was, so I piled him and all the gear in the trusty van and offered a ride as we started to chat. He was a novice and new to the town, but confirmed that the first beaches I passed was the entire extent. So we went to visit and saw a stunning site: so may kites pumped up and waiting; truly as far as the eye could see. But no wind.
The windlessness continued for a few days so I did some other side-trips instead, but on my last day I had gone to inspect the local climbing – discovering I hadn’t packed my shoes, so I just played around at the base of some wonderful (and difficult) looking climbs – when I noticed the wind build.
Down again to the beach and still not enough. But later it built enough to use my biggest kite for 2 hours before dying again. And even in that short time, it was very busy. I can’t imagine when it’s enough wind for everyone who had only brought small kites. It was an uninspired session, but fun, and now I can say I’ve kited Tarifa. But would I go back; not necessarily. Maybe in the winter when the storms brew up big waves.
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 1: Jarrez
Having some free time before a lesson booking, I decide to head south for a few days. Although the decision was firm, the timing was a bit impromptu: I was leaving a yoga session one night, and took a few wrong turns, ending up on the freeway. What the hell, let’s go for it! 3 hours later, I’d crossed the border and made it close to Sevilla before camping at midnight.
The next morning saw me up at dawn, but this was still later than some of the farmers started. Sevilla via freeway was a bit tricky to navigate, but by midday I was down in the town of Jarrez de la Fronterra.
I stopped in Jarrez for two reasons: mundanely, to cash more travellers cheques; but also to determine the connection between the name Jarrez and one of my favourite apperatives, Sherry.
I knew that afficionadoes considered true Port to only come from the region of Porto (or the same for Champagne). But I wasn’t aware the same applies for Jarrez/Sherry – the two words meaning the same thing (in fact ‘Sherry’ is labelled ‘Jarrez’ in Spain).
So I took a tour of the Sandeman bodega (wine cellar). The girl guiding us was great, adorned in their trademark hat and cape (Spanish hat and Portuguese cape apparently, so not an authentic look for the region really, but quite distinctive). She had the unfortunate distinction also of naturally emulating the voice every English comedian does when poking fun at a Spaniard who can’t master the English accent. Her technical English was excellent, but trying to comprehend through her inate lisp and rolling ‘r’s and throaty ‘h’s made you really wonder what she was talking about a times.
However, she was very theatrical in her delivery of some very good information. She told how all sherry is made with white grapes in vineyards that are not irrigated, then left for a long time in a loosely corked barrel with no yeast. Sherry’s distinction from regular wine is that the wine is fortified with near-pure alcohol, also distilled from the same grapes. These aging barrels are mixed every few years so that 1/3 of the final batch is removed and bottled, then 1/3 of each subsequently younger barrel is mixed in, up to 4 generations or more. So 4 barrels at 5 years each is called a 20 year sherry, but clearly some of the contents spend much longer than that! The different grape varieties are later blended to give the varieties of sherry.
A lovely town, and very different region – flat as a pancake and close to being a desert – I’m glad I made the detour. But my true destination was Tarifa, at the southern tip, prominent in the way it juts into the Straits of Gibraltar.
The next morning saw me up at dawn, but this was still later than some of the farmers started. Sevilla via freeway was a bit tricky to navigate, but by midday I was down in the town of Jarrez de la Fronterra.
I stopped in Jarrez for two reasons: mundanely, to cash more travellers cheques; but also to determine the connection between the name Jarrez and one of my favourite apperatives, Sherry.
I knew that afficionadoes considered true Port to only come from the region of Porto (or the same for Champagne). But I wasn’t aware the same applies for Jarrez/Sherry – the two words meaning the same thing (in fact ‘Sherry’ is labelled ‘Jarrez’ in Spain).
So I took a tour of the Sandeman bodega (wine cellar). The girl guiding us was great, adorned in their trademark hat and cape (Spanish hat and Portuguese cape apparently, so not an authentic look for the region really, but quite distinctive). She had the unfortunate distinction also of naturally emulating the voice every English comedian does when poking fun at a Spaniard who can’t master the English accent. Her technical English was excellent, but trying to comprehend through her inate lisp and rolling ‘r’s and throaty ‘h’s made you really wonder what she was talking about a times.
However, she was very theatrical in her delivery of some very good information. She told how all sherry is made with white grapes in vineyards that are not irrigated, then left for a long time in a loosely corked barrel with no yeast. Sherry’s distinction from regular wine is that the wine is fortified with near-pure alcohol, also distilled from the same grapes. These aging barrels are mixed every few years so that 1/3 of the final batch is removed and bottled, then 1/3 of each subsequently younger barrel is mixed in, up to 4 generations or more. So 4 barrels at 5 years each is called a 20 year sherry, but clearly some of the contents spend much longer than that! The different grape varieties are later blended to give the varieties of sherry.
A lovely town, and very different region – flat as a pancake and close to being a desert – I’m glad I made the detour. But my true destination was Tarifa, at the southern tip, prominent in the way it juts into the Straits of Gibraltar.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Intro to novel
You are going to commit the perfect crime. You will commit your crime perfectly, but that is only a basic requirement. The distinction is a subtle one that confounds most master criminals, dooming their efforts to failure from the outset. No. You don’t just plan to succeed; you plan for failure also. You need to know that even if you are caught, you won’t be convicted. But even then, you haven’t encompassed the true ideal of the perfect crime. The perfect crime is undetectable; it is victimless; but still, you know it shouldn’t be done. It’s a bad thing. But you must do it. And you want to.
You start to plan. You’ve got your motives. But they are inconsequential to final outcome. A means to an bigger ends, if you will. You’ve got an idea in your head – a truly life-changing notion – and so you start planning around that. But you see the inherent evil in your plan, which is why you know what you will achieve is a crime. Before going further with details, you need to identify the perfect crime. You build a list of the most basic questions that need to be answered before anything else: who, what, when, where, and why.
Why. Crime is normally motivated by either money or revenge. But underlying all that is power. Maybe that’s why you know what you plan to do is bad. And that is also why you want to. Money and revenge are forms of power, but you want something less traceable, less tangible, less evidentiary. So, why? Control
When. When it’s a crime, it’s not so important how you do it, as how someone else can figure out later how you did it. If your prime methods leave no trace, they cannot be investigated later. And if they were somehow discovered, make it so they are not reproducible. No proof, no conviction, right. When? Transcedentally.
Who. Your first instinct: Obviously not you – remove yourself from the ‘scene of the crime’ as much as possible. But then think about the other answers you’ve already arrived at and know you must be at the very center of it all. The double-bluff; the best way to allay suspicion, by openly admitting your involvement. And don’t be lead into the trap of hubris. If you aim to get away with it because you are smarter, you must accept there is always someone smarter than you out there. No, don’t take it on alone. In fact, the more the better. And so the answer evolves logically, and you see the beauty of it all. Who? Everyone.
How. Now you are getting to the meat of the undertaking. What you have in mind is nothing as simple as “break into bank; steal gold”. It requires an evolutionary approach, much like growing a business: you need a business plan, investors, employees, a product, and a market for your crime. And when you state it like that, the answer is clear. How? Openly.
But all the rest is inconsequential when you consider the most important question, the big one:
And finally, What. They say “it’s only a crime if you get caught”. Sure. But the best way to get away with something is to do something so unique, so novel, that it isn’t actually a crime. Not technically. Not yet…
You start to plan. You’ve got your motives. But they are inconsequential to final outcome. A means to an bigger ends, if you will. You’ve got an idea in your head – a truly life-changing notion – and so you start planning around that. But you see the inherent evil in your plan, which is why you know what you will achieve is a crime. Before going further with details, you need to identify the perfect crime. You build a list of the most basic questions that need to be answered before anything else: who, what, when, where, and why.
Why. Crime is normally motivated by either money or revenge. But underlying all that is power. Maybe that’s why you know what you plan to do is bad. And that is also why you want to. Money and revenge are forms of power, but you want something less traceable, less tangible, less evidentiary. So, why? Control
When. When it’s a crime, it’s not so important how you do it, as how someone else can figure out later how you did it. If your prime methods leave no trace, they cannot be investigated later. And if they were somehow discovered, make it so they are not reproducible. No proof, no conviction, right. When? Transcedentally.
Who. Your first instinct: Obviously not you – remove yourself from the ‘scene of the crime’ as much as possible. But then think about the other answers you’ve already arrived at and know you must be at the very center of it all. The double-bluff; the best way to allay suspicion, by openly admitting your involvement. And don’t be lead into the trap of hubris. If you aim to get away with it because you are smarter, you must accept there is always someone smarter than you out there. No, don’t take it on alone. In fact, the more the better. And so the answer evolves logically, and you see the beauty of it all. Who? Everyone.
How. Now you are getting to the meat of the undertaking. What you have in mind is nothing as simple as “break into bank; steal gold”. It requires an evolutionary approach, much like growing a business: you need a business plan, investors, employees, a product, and a market for your crime. And when you state it like that, the answer is clear. How? Openly.
But all the rest is inconsequential when you consider the most important question, the big one:
And finally, What. They say “it’s only a crime if you get caught”. Sure. But the best way to get away with something is to do something so unique, so novel, that it isn’t actually a crime. Not technically. Not yet…
Road Navigation
OK, I think there is only one word to describe driving around in this part of the world – shear bloody madness. There are roundabouts everywhere. Everywhere. Even when they are not justified, like to take a left turn. Or to prevent one. What?
Now add to that signs are sometimes misleading – like when you have 3 exits indicated, yet you count 5 as you rotate around once, twice, or more (fortunately this is completely legal).
And of course lane markings are completely optional. Yes, on roundabouts that makes sense, sure. But elsewhere? Yup.
Same for parking: if you can make a space and not block people in, its legit (until the cops bother to ticket/clamp that one day in a year). And sometimes the common respect rule of not blocking your fellow parkers appears to be overlooked. Or was I in a used car yard. No, I don't think so.
More on signs, and/or lack of: sometimes they indicate a turn-off right at, or before the sign. Other times they indicate the turn after the next minor intersection. Or you will get a sign leading you in a direction and then have to guess that you keep going straight at the next intersection, until the following intersections confirm you are ontrack and need to keep going straight. Huh?
And on the rare, refreshing occasion, they are just flat wrong! Just for fun, I’m sure.
Or take the instance where you’ve gone off track about and detour into a locals-only district. Of course you live there, so when you finally pop out onto the main thoroughfare, you naturally known to turn left or right without the aide or something as trivial as a signpost. Right.
And just when you think you’ve got it all figured out – that’s it’s just a melee
free-for-all – you discover that traffic lights are sometimes treated with religious reverence. Even when it means a long line of cars on a major road waits for the longest time at the intersection of a minor intersection which sees no traffic at all in the intervening time. I mean, come on!?!
Now you may think to plan your route ahead of time by picking up a map or two. You accept that the larger the scale of map, the less accurate it will be. But I would like to make some sense out of what detail is include, and what conveniently left out. Friday afternoon cartography? Simple lack of space? I know, the “I did the best I could, but I’ve never actually been there ‘cause the boss doesn’t give me a travel budget, so I kinda guessed” excuse.
Or you get a smaller scale map – say just for the little town of Alvor. But half the roads and back alleys are unmarked. Actually, fair enough – it is really hard to find a font small enough to fit “Our lady the holy virgin Madonna of the blessed land” for a street 30 yards long. Or try “Doctor Julio Mendozza Pedro Marcus de Sao Fransico” as it weaves through and intersects with all the other similarly named streets in the cramped old town quarters. Really, yeah – go ahead and leave those blank I guess. However, there is a limit. Like 10% blanks, not 50%.
Figuring out where you are, even when on foot with all the time in the world to look around and compare with your trustworthy map, becomes just a little trickier when you can’t always find the street name placard.
But of course, the freeways are better. Smoother, wider, less interspersed with continual intersections, modern… or make that modernized. It does get a little tricky when an old track, the upgraded route, the bypass road, the supplanting highway, and the major freeway all share the same tract of asphalt. And they all have their indicative road numbers listed on the intersection signs. Now which one did I need to be on again? Let me scan ahead on my (t)rusty map to see where they split and confirm I’m still en route.
And while I’m checking my route, let’s see which direction I need to take at that intersection coming up…which may or may not give you a preview indication of your possible choices, and which choices you see first may or may not be repeated in the same format when you actually reach said intersection. OK, that aside, you are faced with two choices. But are they showing you the next town in either direction? Or the next major town in either direction? Or the final terminus destination at the end of the road (and which of the many roads do you judge that based on?)? Yes, any of the above, or mix at match at your leisure. But choose wisely – you may not have the option to change your mind for quite some time later.
Finally – tollbooths. Thankfully there are few of these. Now I don’t expect them to show signs in English, but how about some useful icons. For example, I ran across one where I could figure out not to use the express lane, so went for one of the cash options. But there was no booth. No person. No sign at all, just a slot.
Fortunately there was a help button (unmarked of course) that got me in touch with someone who fortunately spoke English. He explained this lane was credit card only. OK, so how about putting the standard stamps for Visa and Mastercard and whatever next the little slot that must feel so naked and unstylish in its bland brushed-metal grey. So I whipped out my card quick as I could, but not soon enough to avoid an irritated hoot from behind as I raced away.
Now add to that signs are sometimes misleading – like when you have 3 exits indicated, yet you count 5 as you rotate around once, twice, or more (fortunately this is completely legal).
And of course lane markings are completely optional. Yes, on roundabouts that makes sense, sure. But elsewhere? Yup.
Same for parking: if you can make a space and not block people in, its legit (until the cops bother to ticket/clamp that one day in a year). And sometimes the common respect rule of not blocking your fellow parkers appears to be overlooked. Or was I in a used car yard. No, I don't think so.
More on signs, and/or lack of: sometimes they indicate a turn-off right at, or before the sign. Other times they indicate the turn after the next minor intersection. Or you will get a sign leading you in a direction and then have to guess that you keep going straight at the next intersection, until the following intersections confirm you are ontrack and need to keep going straight. Huh?
And on the rare, refreshing occasion, they are just flat wrong! Just for fun, I’m sure.
Or take the instance where you’ve gone off track about and detour into a locals-only district. Of course you live there, so when you finally pop out onto the main thoroughfare, you naturally known to turn left or right without the aide or something as trivial as a signpost. Right.
And just when you think you’ve got it all figured out – that’s it’s just a melee
free-for-all – you discover that traffic lights are sometimes treated with religious reverence. Even when it means a long line of cars on a major road waits for the longest time at the intersection of a minor intersection which sees no traffic at all in the intervening time. I mean, come on!?!
Now you may think to plan your route ahead of time by picking up a map or two. You accept that the larger the scale of map, the less accurate it will be. But I would like to make some sense out of what detail is include, and what conveniently left out. Friday afternoon cartography? Simple lack of space? I know, the “I did the best I could, but I’ve never actually been there ‘cause the boss doesn’t give me a travel budget, so I kinda guessed” excuse.
Or you get a smaller scale map – say just for the little town of Alvor. But half the roads and back alleys are unmarked. Actually, fair enough – it is really hard to find a font small enough to fit “Our lady the holy virgin Madonna of the blessed land” for a street 30 yards long. Or try “Doctor Julio Mendozza Pedro Marcus de Sao Fransico” as it weaves through and intersects with all the other similarly named streets in the cramped old town quarters. Really, yeah – go ahead and leave those blank I guess. However, there is a limit. Like 10% blanks, not 50%.
Figuring out where you are, even when on foot with all the time in the world to look around and compare with your trustworthy map, becomes just a little trickier when you can’t always find the street name placard.
But of course, the freeways are better. Smoother, wider, less interspersed with continual intersections, modern… or make that modernized. It does get a little tricky when an old track, the upgraded route, the bypass road, the supplanting highway, and the major freeway all share the same tract of asphalt. And they all have their indicative road numbers listed on the intersection signs. Now which one did I need to be on again? Let me scan ahead on my (t)rusty map to see where they split and confirm I’m still en route.
And while I’m checking my route, let’s see which direction I need to take at that intersection coming up…which may or may not give you a preview indication of your possible choices, and which choices you see first may or may not be repeated in the same format when you actually reach said intersection. OK, that aside, you are faced with two choices. But are they showing you the next town in either direction? Or the next major town in either direction? Or the final terminus destination at the end of the road (and which of the many roads do you judge that based on?)? Yes, any of the above, or mix at match at your leisure. But choose wisely – you may not have the option to change your mind for quite some time later.
Finally – tollbooths. Thankfully there are few of these. Now I don’t expect them to show signs in English, but how about some useful icons. For example, I ran across one where I could figure out not to use the express lane, so went for one of the cash options. But there was no booth. No person. No sign at all, just a slot.
Fortunately there was a help button (unmarked of course) that got me in touch with someone who fortunately spoke English. He explained this lane was credit card only. OK, so how about putting the standard stamps for Visa and Mastercard and whatever next the little slot that must feel so naked and unstylish in its bland brushed-metal grey. So I whipped out my card quick as I could, but not soon enough to avoid an irritated hoot from behind as I raced away.
Montezuma’s Revenge
Well, I finally got bitten by a tummy bug. But that makes it sound much nicer than it really was. Strangely, the warning signs cam on a week earlier, with a strange gag reflex just while walking down the street. “That’s odd, I thought” but nothing more. It happened again a few days later, but equally nothing more followed. And if I think back, I noticed a slight soreness in my throat.
Then during a yoga class, my neck started aching, and gradually throughout that day my whole body started aching like I had flu or something. That night came sweats and chills, and by the morning I was also having attacks of diarrhea.
Hoping it was just a 24 hour bug, I went to the pharmacy and explained my symptoms. The girl looked concerned and suggested it would be an infection, for which I should visit a hospital to get a prescription for antibiotics. But at the time the symptoms had calmed to just aching and a grand headache, so she dispensed some strong dosages of paracetemol and ibuprofen.
The drugs kicked in and I was happily distracted with extracting my van after parking too close to edge of a dirt birm, and slipped over the edge. But that’s another story…
The next day, medicated and preoccupied with bits and pieces, I was fine, but again that night, with the drugs wearing off, it started all over again.
By 4 in the morning I’d had enough and drove to the Portimao emergency room for help. They were very helpful, and although the doctor didn’t speak English, the receptionist and nurse did, and I managed to get the idea across. They were thorough – blood and urine tests, and even an x-ray, then left me on a saline drip for a couple of hours before declaring there was no sign of infection, and that it must have been something I ate or drank.
So I walked away with a prescription for amoxicillin, after paying a very reasonable (but for my current financial status, expensive) bill of 125 euros. This was due to my lack of residency or European insurance card, which would have made it almost free, I understand.
I filled the prescription and checked into the local youth hostel. Other than struggling off my sick bed to do my laundry, I spent the majority of the day in bed or on the can!
But when you have a bad day, it just seems to invite incidents to compound upon each other. In this case (and I’ll blame being a bit drug-addled), I locked the keys in the car. Great. But the hostel provided a length of wire that they used to repair their chain-link fence. Low and behold, I had the lock popped open in just 10 seconds! Well, not bad – and now I have a ‘spare key’
.
By day’s end, the drugs and sleep had balanced me out enough that I was available when my students called saying there were kites in the air. We went out and had a great couple of hours of them getting drug around through the sand and water in their first kite-flying experience! Finally a bright spot to my day. And just enough activity to wear me out so I slept through the night (other than the frequent runs to the bathroom).
The next day, things improved. I stayed awake all day, mostly working on repairing the school kites I’d been given. But I was still running to the toilet hourly. At the end of the day, I took my 2 students out for lessons and the fun and activity distracted me enough to make it through 3 hours in a wetsuit without incident. Plus my head felt clearer, although I was still on painkillers.
Dawn the next day of good solid sleep, and although not perfect, I could definitely feel the old self reemerging. Now I’m just sweating honestly, from the heat of the day. Highs are in the mid-30s.
I could not believe the intensity of this infliction! Without the aide of modern medicine, I would have been completely incapacitated by this simple germ. (The daily temps in the 30s didn’t help at all.) I can’t know where I picked it up, especially if the gag reflexes and sore throat were actually precursors. I do believe the yoga activity freed it up from its latent state – that is one of the purposes of yoga: to purge the system of embedded toxins.
Then during a yoga class, my neck started aching, and gradually throughout that day my whole body started aching like I had flu or something. That night came sweats and chills, and by the morning I was also having attacks of diarrhea.
Hoping it was just a 24 hour bug, I went to the pharmacy and explained my symptoms. The girl looked concerned and suggested it would be an infection, for which I should visit a hospital to get a prescription for antibiotics. But at the time the symptoms had calmed to just aching and a grand headache, so she dispensed some strong dosages of paracetemol and ibuprofen.
The drugs kicked in and I was happily distracted with extracting my van after parking too close to edge of a dirt birm, and slipped over the edge. But that’s another story…
The next day, medicated and preoccupied with bits and pieces, I was fine, but again that night, with the drugs wearing off, it started all over again.
By 4 in the morning I’d had enough and drove to the Portimao emergency room for help. They were very helpful, and although the doctor didn’t speak English, the receptionist and nurse did, and I managed to get the idea across. They were thorough – blood and urine tests, and even an x-ray, then left me on a saline drip for a couple of hours before declaring there was no sign of infection, and that it must have been something I ate or drank.
So I walked away with a prescription for amoxicillin, after paying a very reasonable (but for my current financial status, expensive) bill of 125 euros. This was due to my lack of residency or European insurance card, which would have made it almost free, I understand.
I filled the prescription and checked into the local youth hostel. Other than struggling off my sick bed to do my laundry, I spent the majority of the day in bed or on the can!
But when you have a bad day, it just seems to invite incidents to compound upon each other. In this case (and I’ll blame being a bit drug-addled), I locked the keys in the car. Great. But the hostel provided a length of wire that they used to repair their chain-link fence. Low and behold, I had the lock popped open in just 10 seconds! Well, not bad – and now I have a ‘spare key’
.
By day’s end, the drugs and sleep had balanced me out enough that I was available when my students called saying there were kites in the air. We went out and had a great couple of hours of them getting drug around through the sand and water in their first kite-flying experience! Finally a bright spot to my day. And just enough activity to wear me out so I slept through the night (other than the frequent runs to the bathroom).
The next day, things improved. I stayed awake all day, mostly working on repairing the school kites I’d been given. But I was still running to the toilet hourly. At the end of the day, I took my 2 students out for lessons and the fun and activity distracted me enough to make it through 3 hours in a wetsuit without incident. Plus my head felt clearer, although I was still on painkillers.
Dawn the next day of good solid sleep, and although not perfect, I could definitely feel the old self reemerging. Now I’m just sweating honestly, from the heat of the day. Highs are in the mid-30s.
I could not believe the intensity of this infliction! Without the aide of modern medicine, I would have been completely incapacitated by this simple germ. (The daily temps in the 30s didn’t help at all.) I can’t know where I picked it up, especially if the gag reflexes and sore throat were actually precursors. I do believe the yoga activity freed it up from its latent state – that is one of the purposes of yoga: to purge the system of embedded toxins.
The World Cup
So, there’s this game of football – known to some as soccer – and apparently it’s even come to the attention of Americans that there is a World Cup contest held every few years (and yes, it involves a whole slew of different nationalities, with one team per country, unlike the American-dominated baseball and basketball equivalents).
Well, the Portuguese natives and English tourists are equally soccer-made. This has a very odd impact on the population of the little tourist town of Alvor. Fortunately their rivalry doesn’t set them at odds. But in the middle of the day, I can walk down the main streets which are at the same time empty of pedestrians yet teeming with noise from avid supporters as they are all glued to the big flat screen TVs that are hosted in all bars.
And although this is a good time to get things done, I’m not immune either. I got sucked into the NZ-Slovakia match where I couldn’t believe the refs allowed the first Slovak goal when their players were offsides (even though I had to be reminded what this infraction meant). And I was equally elated when the All Whites tied it up with only 10 seconds of penalty overtime left to go. It really was an excellent match.
Unfortunately I missed the remaining NZ games, though I was eager to know the results afterwards. Yet with all the options for allegiances I share – NZ, USA, UK, Portugal – I’m already without any clear team to support. Now they’ve been knocked out, I wonder if the Portuguese support will default to their neighbours the Spanish?
Well, the Portuguese natives and English tourists are equally soccer-made. This has a very odd impact on the population of the little tourist town of Alvor. Fortunately their rivalry doesn’t set them at odds. But in the middle of the day, I can walk down the main streets which are at the same time empty of pedestrians yet teeming with noise from avid supporters as they are all glued to the big flat screen TVs that are hosted in all bars.
And although this is a good time to get things done, I’m not immune either. I got sucked into the NZ-Slovakia match where I couldn’t believe the refs allowed the first Slovak goal when their players were offsides (even though I had to be reminded what this infraction meant). And I was equally elated when the All Whites tied it up with only 10 seconds of penalty overtime left to go. It really was an excellent match.
Unfortunately I missed the remaining NZ games, though I was eager to know the results afterwards. Yet with all the options for allegiances I share – NZ, USA, UK, Portugal – I’m already without any clear team to support. Now they’ve been knocked out, I wonder if the Portuguese support will default to their neighbours the Spanish?
Steve & Monique, local Canadians
This couple moved to a little town to the north as Steve is involved with a Canadian mining company. He has been kiting for 6 years or so, and she is just starting to learn. They are a delightful couple: I ran into Monique at a restaurant and we had a good old chat about life in Portugal and how Steve and I should buddy up as we are at the same level of kiting. This suggestion came partly out of the fact that she was about to pay a visit back home for the next 6 weeks and Steve could enjoy someone to hang out with in her absence.
On an apparent tangent: Now one thing I’ve acknowledged about the old van is that the rear-wheel drive tires are as bald as anything. Following a failed parking attempt at the edge of a slipper grass and sand slope, I found myself stuck. I envoked a whole family to give me a push actually over the edge into the flats, where I may be able to drive out. This we did successfully, but I was still stuck as I couldn’t gain any traction on the dry grass, and kept threatening to dig a deep rut in the underlying sand.
After trying to jam some loose wood planks under the tires with no result, I set to changing the worse stuck tire for the spare, which had ample tread left. But even then I could not break free. Resigned to calling a tow truck – the next morning, as I figured I would get an extra after-hours call out fee this late in the day – I heard a friendly voice call out if I was OK.
It was Scott, who’d come down on a day off to try and get a little kiting time in. Although that effort was a miss, his timely presence came to my rescue. He applied his 90+ kg bulk to rock the van out of the little ruts and backed up onto the cardboard I’d laid out as a kind of mini runway. Then he got behind and pushed as I took off as best I could.
But even still I felt the insidious feeling of bogging down again in the sand – that awful knowledge that you don’t have enough speed to keep moving, but that if you give it more gas, then you succeed in just spinning the tires and digging ruts that trap you even worse.
But then I kept moving and caught on harder ground and suddenly I was free! I asked Scott afterwards and confirmed that he’d been able to catch up and give that little extra assist I needed to keep momentum and escape.
“So what are you drinking?” I asked in way of wanting to say thanks.
He was happy with a small beer at the closest tavern where the Spain-Portugal match was playing. We got engrossed and at half-time decided to move to a more comfortable scene to enjoy the rest of the game. In between the action we got into a good chat about kiting and gear (as you do) and had another beer (that he definitely was not going to be allowed to pay for!) Although Spain beat Portugal, we enjoyed our short boy’s night out. He had an hours drive home, so we called it quits at that point, but I look forward to the next time (hopefully without vehicular incident this time).
Post-script to the van incident: after riding on the spare tire for 2 days, I went out one morning no issues. Then 2 hours later, I went to get my students for a lesson and felt a rhythmic thump as I drove. My first worry was that the clutch was slipping. But it was the tire. It had deformed - in the heat, under use, or with the full pressure of inflation, I'll never know. Well we made it out to the kite spot, and I let some air out as we could visibly see it had deformed. The drive back felt better, but we ended up limping - then thumping - into a gas station. I had hoped I'd let out too much air for full speed driving, but found the outer layer of the tire had completely separated. Nothing to do but swap back to the bald original. Oh well, guess I'll need to find a replacement (after I make some more money!)
On an apparent tangent: Now one thing I’ve acknowledged about the old van is that the rear-wheel drive tires are as bald as anything. Following a failed parking attempt at the edge of a slipper grass and sand slope, I found myself stuck. I envoked a whole family to give me a push actually over the edge into the flats, where I may be able to drive out. This we did successfully, but I was still stuck as I couldn’t gain any traction on the dry grass, and kept threatening to dig a deep rut in the underlying sand.
After trying to jam some loose wood planks under the tires with no result, I set to changing the worse stuck tire for the spare, which had ample tread left. But even then I could not break free. Resigned to calling a tow truck – the next morning, as I figured I would get an extra after-hours call out fee this late in the day – I heard a friendly voice call out if I was OK.
It was Scott, who’d come down on a day off to try and get a little kiting time in. Although that effort was a miss, his timely presence came to my rescue. He applied his 90+ kg bulk to rock the van out of the little ruts and backed up onto the cardboard I’d laid out as a kind of mini runway. Then he got behind and pushed as I took off as best I could.
But even still I felt the insidious feeling of bogging down again in the sand – that awful knowledge that you don’t have enough speed to keep moving, but that if you give it more gas, then you succeed in just spinning the tires and digging ruts that trap you even worse.
But then I kept moving and caught on harder ground and suddenly I was free! I asked Scott afterwards and confirmed that he’d been able to catch up and give that little extra assist I needed to keep momentum and escape.
“So what are you drinking?” I asked in way of wanting to say thanks.
He was happy with a small beer at the closest tavern where the Spain-Portugal match was playing. We got engrossed and at half-time decided to move to a more comfortable scene to enjoy the rest of the game. In between the action we got into a good chat about kiting and gear (as you do) and had another beer (that he definitely was not going to be allowed to pay for!) Although Spain beat Portugal, we enjoyed our short boy’s night out. He had an hours drive home, so we called it quits at that point, but I look forward to the next time (hopefully without vehicular incident this time).
Post-script to the van incident: after riding on the spare tire for 2 days, I went out one morning no issues. Then 2 hours later, I went to get my students for a lesson and felt a rhythmic thump as I drove. My first worry was that the clutch was slipping. But it was the tire. It had deformed - in the heat, under use, or with the full pressure of inflation, I'll never know. Well we made it out to the kite spot, and I let some air out as we could visibly see it had deformed. The drive back felt better, but we ended up limping - then thumping - into a gas station. I had hoped I'd let out too much air for full speed driving, but found the outer layer of the tire had completely separated. Nothing to do but swap back to the bald original. Oh well, guess I'll need to find a replacement (after I make some more money!)
Surprise visitor
One morning I woke up to the most unexpected call from Steve Dale, my dormmate from the first Lisbon hostel I stay in. We had enjoyed a couple of good days and nights exploring that town, and since then he’d kept up with my blog. When he saw I’d been through Santa Clara he couldn’t believe it – that’s where he’d been based since leaving Lisbon, working for room and board at farmstead that hosted tourists.
So he was calling to let me know he had the day off and wanted to know if I was free for a visit. Having slipped into a very relaxed lifestyle by now, I said sure; there wasn’t anything I couldn’t put off until Amanha (Portuguese for Manyana – tomorrow).
So we met up in Lagos and wonder the streets for a while; checked out the old fort that I wanted to visit anyway. Here we learned that one of the old Portuguese princes in the time of exploration had been responsible for fabricating a sailing and navigating school in Sagres, the southwest-most tip of the country. Fabricated, not founded, as the school never actually existed! This must have been one of the earliest forms of PR I’ve ever heard of. And of course with no “on the spot, roaming reporters” to confirm or deny, the myth stuck. This museum suggested it much more likely Lagos was the main exodus point for voyages of exploration, due to the coastline and population.
We next headed over to Alvor and I was happy to show Steve around this little burg… which took all of 15 minutes, by which time it was beer-o’clock. And of course there was a soccer match on TV, so we settled in for a little chill time.
It was good to see him again, and compare notes about our experiences, and tans, of the past few weeks. It sounds like he’s been worked to the bone at this farmstead (Quenta) and so hasn’t lulled as I have. One of the biggest revelations I took away from this re-encounter was how much I’ve slowed down into the enforced relaxation of this new lifestyle. Well, good on ya Steve, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your travels if we don’t meet again around these parts.
So he was calling to let me know he had the day off and wanted to know if I was free for a visit. Having slipped into a very relaxed lifestyle by now, I said sure; there wasn’t anything I couldn’t put off until Amanha (Portuguese for Manyana – tomorrow).
So we met up in Lagos and wonder the streets for a while; checked out the old fort that I wanted to visit anyway. Here we learned that one of the old Portuguese princes in the time of exploration had been responsible for fabricating a sailing and navigating school in Sagres, the southwest-most tip of the country. Fabricated, not founded, as the school never actually existed! This must have been one of the earliest forms of PR I’ve ever heard of. And of course with no “on the spot, roaming reporters” to confirm or deny, the myth stuck. This museum suggested it much more likely Lagos was the main exodus point for voyages of exploration, due to the coastline and population.
We next headed over to Alvor and I was happy to show Steve around this little burg… which took all of 15 minutes, by which time it was beer-o’clock. And of course there was a soccer match on TV, so we settled in for a little chill time.
It was good to see him again, and compare notes about our experiences, and tans, of the past few weeks. It sounds like he’s been worked to the bone at this farmstead (Quenta) and so hasn’t lulled as I have. One of the biggest revelations I took away from this re-encounter was how much I’ve slowed down into the enforced relaxation of this new lifestyle. Well, good on ya Steve, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your travels if we don’t meet again around these parts.
Visiting kiters
I’ve only been here a few weeks so can hardly be considered a local. That said, I’ve played host and guide to a number of visitors, which has been most enjoyable.
Kasia and Dana: the first visiting kiter friends I met were two girls arrived from Gernsey Island (in the English channel), yet they were natives of Poland and Slovakia. I got a mild tongue lashing when I collectively described them as Germans!
They were a lot of fun, and it was great to watch them improve from having trouble staying up wind to confidently riding in strong wind conditions with little worries. I joined them out on the town one night but had to call it quits by 2am. Apparently they carried on till 5 or 6 that morning. Of course, they were a waste the next day. But as they said, there was nothing they had to do except kite, which doesn’t happen till the afternoon here anyway.
Sergio Borg: Perhaps most enjoyable was this young chap who, despite the name, came from the north of England. On a whim he came for a few days in the sun, rented a station wagon, bought a cheap air mattress and wetsuit, and was the happiest man you could imagine! The first day I met him, he was frozen to the bone (this was before the wetsuit purchase) and chatting away with another kiter, who we (the “German” girls and I) were introduced to as Tony – actually Antonio from Sevilla, Spain. Tony spoke barely any English, so we marvelled at Sergio’s linguistic skills. It was soon revealed Serg didn’t actually speak any Spanish, but with a fun friendly attitude and a few hand gestures, they were able to communicate quite impressively.
All 5 of us went out to dinner that night and it was a riot sharing thoughts and ideas between this multi-national group. It turned out I actually spoke probably the most Spanish, but that didn’t mean I was the best at communicating with Tony – my perceived knowledge prevented me from bridging the gaps as willingly (and flagrantly) as the others. But at one point, after sitting back quietly, Tony turned to me and expressed that he was really enjoying this interlude as it was a great language lesson for him. I love people with good attitudes!
The next day we met another Spanish guy from Sevilla who spoke good English. Although this improved the communication to some extent, this kind of took the fun out of it a little.
I’ve also played local guide to a few others:
Ed, who wanted to learn how to turn, and thought he would need some lessons as he thought he’d never get it. But I watched for an hour and could tell he just needed a bit of time in these ideal learning conditions.
Lee and his horse-loving wife, who were here for a few days
Tim, the bulky tattoo but soft-spoken Brit for the south-east who was just happy to be here.
And then there was Ed & Kev – two examples of backpackers who each stopped me on the street, noticing my stickers, and asked for some info. Of course, I haven’t heard from either of them again…
Kasia and Dana: the first visiting kiter friends I met were two girls arrived from Gernsey Island (in the English channel), yet they were natives of Poland and Slovakia. I got a mild tongue lashing when I collectively described them as Germans!
They were a lot of fun, and it was great to watch them improve from having trouble staying up wind to confidently riding in strong wind conditions with little worries. I joined them out on the town one night but had to call it quits by 2am. Apparently they carried on till 5 or 6 that morning. Of course, they were a waste the next day. But as they said, there was nothing they had to do except kite, which doesn’t happen till the afternoon here anyway.
Sergio Borg: Perhaps most enjoyable was this young chap who, despite the name, came from the north of England. On a whim he came for a few days in the sun, rented a station wagon, bought a cheap air mattress and wetsuit, and was the happiest man you could imagine! The first day I met him, he was frozen to the bone (this was before the wetsuit purchase) and chatting away with another kiter, who we (the “German” girls and I) were introduced to as Tony – actually Antonio from Sevilla, Spain. Tony spoke barely any English, so we marvelled at Sergio’s linguistic skills. It was soon revealed Serg didn’t actually speak any Spanish, but with a fun friendly attitude and a few hand gestures, they were able to communicate quite impressively.
All 5 of us went out to dinner that night and it was a riot sharing thoughts and ideas between this multi-national group. It turned out I actually spoke probably the most Spanish, but that didn’t mean I was the best at communicating with Tony – my perceived knowledge prevented me from bridging the gaps as willingly (and flagrantly) as the others. But at one point, after sitting back quietly, Tony turned to me and expressed that he was really enjoying this interlude as it was a great language lesson for him. I love people with good attitudes!
The next day we met another Spanish guy from Sevilla who spoke good English. Although this improved the communication to some extent, this kind of took the fun out of it a little.
I’ve also played local guide to a few others:
Ed, who wanted to learn how to turn, and thought he would need some lessons as he thought he’d never get it. But I watched for an hour and could tell he just needed a bit of time in these ideal learning conditions.
Lee and his horse-loving wife, who were here for a few days
Tim, the bulky tattoo but soft-spoken Brit for the south-east who was just happy to be here.
And then there was Ed & Kev – two examples of backpackers who each stopped me on the street, noticing my stickers, and asked for some info. Of course, I haven’t heard from either of them again…
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
