Leiniegan Versus the Ants

As a child, I watched a TV Sunday matinee, I think on channel 11. I saw "Amazon" with Chalton Heston. He is a fearless colonizing man who, when he learns a horde of army ants are coming to devour his cacao plantation deep in the Brazilian rainforest, he will not yield. All the other planters flee but he believes man's knowledge will outwit the ants! He will build moats! Fire breaks, all sorts of other clever Charlton Heston kind of "Home Alone" gadgets but much more macho and sweaty. 

These ants, are actually a real thing and terrify many species and humans in Centro America. The scene where the careless drunk guard wakes up to find himself being devoured by ants scares me to this day (it's pretty gruesome - good special effects for the time)

A few days ago at dusk I  sat happily at a table adjacent to the pool and jungle when my feet caught fire. All my toes were being bitten. Out of nowhere army ants had invaded the area. While not as bad as soldier ants these things turned the entire surface of the patios black with ant massings. I have never seen anything like it. Trails of the ants marched 5 by 5 swarming the place, coming from every direction in multiple groups.

Apparently they are blind and only march following scent and raid and kill all other insects or small mammals in their path. The Ticos call them 'limpiores' (likely improper spelling) which means 'cleaners' as they rid houses of everything from mice to cockroaches entirely.

I ran to the front office trying to avoid any of the massing of ants and eventually the German owner showed up with a few cans of insecticide sort of rolling his eyes. He said 'it's the season, they just come for food'

'I don't know' I said, 'I understand ants but these are a helluva a lot of ants.'

He walked up and then began to shake his head repeating : 'ooff! offfoo! oofff!' as if he couldn't believe it. 'See' I said, 'that is a lot of ants'.

Many spray cans later paired with multiple hoses only one very large mass of ants were left marching down the pathway to some other destination.

They were gone the next day but the Tico staff had to spend a lot of time sweeping away ant remains.

And by the way, in "Amazon" Heston's moat was useless. The ants figured out how to use leaves as boats and invaded the plantation nonetheless. Heston covered himself in petrol and blew up some dam somwhere. The plantation was saved. 

But not Heston the actor. So the story goes he didn't want to cover himself in gross thick oil filming in the deep tropical jungle so they decided instead to cover him in molasses which looks like oil.  

Guess how that turned out.

Samara Again

 We came here about 17 years ago. A small somewhat remote coast town reported by guide books (before real internet) to have great seas and a calm beach. It had one small surf school and a newly minted ATM way down from our treehouse lodge guarded by soldatos. Walking there felt like an indescribible trek in the heat.

Today it has expanded to 8 times its size though in small patches. Gringos here gringos there, gringos, gringos, gringos everywhere. The properties are being bought up fast for a piece in paradise. 

C says, "you know you are a gringo too?" "Of course I do. Do you think I would think otherwise?"

You still hear the howlers at night though they seem farther away than when we were here so long ago. 

The Tico wait staff in town grow increasingly irritated by the hordes of very young gringos taking non-stop selfies: bikinis, posing, pouting, more pouting and then their food plate.

Retired hippie gringos are here too, but interestingly more quiet and respectful than I would have expected. This older generation I believe remember what it was like before hotels: when you pitched a tent.

It's still a small town nonetheless.  You know everyone, see everyone you've seen before and run into everyone you saw earlier that day. The sun is a hammer and the ocean, a repetitive light crest sound onto the strand. The town dogs wander and a gorgeous grey horse walks lazy like down a large street. 'Where is she going? For a walk?'

We met Greg and his wife here. From Maine originally they have been all over the world. They planned to retire in Samara and buy, but Greg said after his usual two months here he begins to think more and more: "Everyone is buying here, building and I keep thinking more land gone, more howlers pushed away by more houses. More jungle gone."

One of the best dramas I have seen was "Tsunami: the Aftermath" a BBC and HBO production done some four years after the actual events - there are many great actors in it: Chiwetel Ejiofer, Toni Collette and Samrit Michaelson. Michaelson's character plays a Thai waiter whose fishing village is destroyed by the wave. Thai hotel chains plan for new development in the wake of this destructive opportunity. 

His character sits on the ruined beach saying: "This place is ours always, I see beauty, I see it but others see it too".

Tonight while the usual beach band at a restaurant played old Beatles staples and a sampling of grunge we paid our bill and got ready to leave. Then the power in town went out. 

We had to touch the walls to find the way out onto the street but there I saw the best stars I've seen since the Sault. A retired American woman was using her phone to light the street to find where to go. As I was shouting to C ahead: "Look at the stars!" the American said the same thing to her husband. People stood in amazement looking at the sky. At some bar many yards away we heard cheering then motorcycles started driving all around the town some blinking flashlights and a few with fire crackers.

I kept staring into the sky. A young Italian was standing by his girlfriend in front of a hotel bar, they both had a glass of wine looking straight up. "Excuse me." he says, " I heard you earlier talking about the moon and stars and you know about this. This sky doesn't look real, can you tell me what this is?' 

"This is what the sky really looks like, if you don't have all the lights on." 

He asked me to tell him what the star patterns were and I pointed out Orion, other constellations,  low down, but now rising and then we looked up at the Milky Way. He asked why star positions looked different in different places on earth and I talked about the rotation of the planet and our trek around the sun. 

"Thank you, now I must buy a book!".  We saluted, I went on my way, the power returned a few minutes later. 

Samara works its magic for all worried hearts. 

The Cheese Shop

On Saturday we walked all around Samara, which is a very small town, looking for an ATM that had cash. We needed cash (which I prefer) as many places don't take credit cards. In this case I had really screwed up my left leg snorkelling and was having trouble walking. I thus booked a cash only massage for my leg.

The temperature here mid-day is posted as 95 degrees, it may be hotter. In that heat my cognition feels as impaired as it did way up on a volcano in Colombia where I was mountain sick and barely able to figure out what was going on (for more on mountain sickness, just read Jon Krakauer's "Into Thin Air".

I went to one ATM to wait 20 minutes in a line in the sun. The Ticos in line were equally as annoyed, frustrated and hot as the minutes ticked by. Here no one goes out in mid-day. 

A woman finally emerged using colourful language to explain to all that the machina had no dollores or colones and kept asking her to try again. She told us the only other ATM in town was at the supermercado. I then sat down on a local corner bar to get either a soda water or a wine - they had neither, while trying to figure out how far away the supermercado was. I can't emphasise how hot it was and my leg was killing me and no massage in the cards without cash.

Catherine looking for a pedicure, found out that the mercado was just around a corner. We trudged there, me almost at my limit. She was close to hers but her leg wasn't in spasm so she would carry on. 

She then suggested I should sit somewhere and she would try the Scotiabank at the mercado. I saw a large scarlet red sign next to the market that said: "Rosa. Resto - Bar - Lounge" and it looked reasonably lounge like. 

I walked in and collapsed at the nearest table in the shade, the next table occupied by a sole young American who was face timing on her computer. I was dripping with sweat, soaked through my tank top and kept gasping for breath given the heat. She giggled sympathetically. I asked for the wifi password and signed in to "Rosa Bar"

A punkish-hippie waitress in her late 20s walked up and asked what I would like. 

"Ola. Por favore una agua con gas con hielo e' limon". (club soda with ice and lime) "Oh...I don't think we have agua con gas, let me check" I think she was German and thus fluent in English. But she did know her Spanish. She wandered away and came back a minute later. "Sorry we have no agua con gas just tap water."

Dying in the withering temperature puzzled, I turned to white wine. "Do you have any cold white wine and if so what kind?" i hated this awful italian and spanish plonk they sell in all the bars and restaurants. I couldn't understand why they didn't just stock solid Chilean wines.

"Umm i don't think so...maybe we have a glass of red somewhere but I will check" She wandered away and a few minutes later came back. "Sorry, we have no wine'. "No wine? Really?" She brightened up. "We have shots!!!" "No, I don't want shots." The heat was unbelievable. "What about beer? A cold beer?" "I will check, I think we have maybe one beer that starts with an "S""

"Stella Artois?" I was hopeful. She went away again and came back. "No, I am sorry, no beer".

By this time I was astounded. I burst out laughing and smiling, "what kind of bar are you really??? It says 'Bar, Lounge. Restaurant' and you have nothing! it's like the cheese shop". She looked at me:"Maybe you go there to that bar, there behind". 

"What do you mean, aren't you the Rosa?" "No, we are the ice cream stand"...I crooked my neck around the corner to see a stand with a small Baskin Robbins set up with maybe six windows of possible gelato. All the front tables were smushed together between the gelato stand and the bar. 

I asked the waitress as I stumbled into the Rosa Bar to get a cold soda water: "Have you seen Monty Python the cheese shop?" She wheeled around laughing: "Yes , I have!"

I am still puzzled about the shots, but then again this is Costa Rica: Pura Vida!

OG Dog

 Interesting Tulum morning. OG the smallish pit bull who looked and seemed like a Winnie the Pooh wandered around our legs. Catherine asked the Grunge-esque Mexican hippie woman (thus our age) "where did you get OG?" She replies: " In Mexico City". "From who?" Woman replies: "I traded her for hash" then a small shoulder shrug, "You know how Mexico is" then a brief laugh.

Petrals and Gulls

 When the fishers come in at the end of the day, they throw all their small fish bait to the sand and petrals and gulls swarm to get the small fish. Watched a lucky petral fly amongst her flock with a large silver fish in her beak as all the other birds tried to snatch it from her. She was a very clever bird and while swooping and diving managed to hang on to it until she dove right down straight into the sea, I assume to swallow it unbothered by her brethren.

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Vespa Smash

 In a taxi to the beach today I imagined a new video game: "Vespa Smash!"

You the driver of the taxi race at 100 km an hour, on a one lane path (speed limit 20), interspersed between cars cheek to jowl parked on both sides of the road while lines of turistas on vespas drive slowly in front of your cab. You either overtake them or have to get rid of them. They wear ear buds or stare at their phones so honking won't work!

For bonus points you can take out the many, many turistas who have not been on a bicycle for 20 years and steer their bike like Jan Brady.

Extra points if you take out the barely dressed blonds in the smallest thongs really getting down on cycling on old bike seats that likely carry gonnorrhea.

Nothing between them and the seats but sunscreen.

Cartel

 A few days ago we were wandering looking for a shoe store for C as her sandals caused her nothing but misery. After going from store to store we gave up and C resigned herself to going to the local version of Wal-Mart. I declined the adventure and sat down in a cool bar on a side street to have a glass of wine and view the comings and goings. It was only after about 20 minutes that I realized the roped off establishment across from me was where the cartel cross fire shootings had happened on October 25th, killing a German woman and a young "social influencer" from California. 3 other turistas were shot. 

The cartels, formerly absent from the region, when we were here 7 years ago, have taken hold, When COVID shut everything down the only place you could go, if American, was Yucatan, and they held raves and dance parties unfettered.

With raves etc...come drugs and then the cartels. 

A few nights ago in a small restaurant a group of American turistas looking as nervous as mice waited drinking Coronas until the Mexican woman with the bunch introduced them to some guy, very hyper, with a back pack. Lite talk and small introduction. 

I knew what was going down.

Behind them 7 NYC undercover drug detectives ate 3 courses of food each while telling 'on the beat' war stories from the different detachments they had been assigned to. I assume they were here to do American-Mexican drug enforcement training. 

National guard soldiers in white camoflauge, bullet proof vests and significant guns patrol the street in armoured carriers the way the Brits did in Northen Ireland during "The Troubles". 

The beach resort area swells with rich white girls suffering from extreme eating disorders and their more plump muscle bound boyfriends. 

In a state where the poverty rate is 49 percent, remember a Mexcian poverty rate valuation, half the population lives in dismal shanty towns, cheek to jowl with huge new timeshare condos. One might see the attraction of cartel life. 

Kyle Rittenhouse acquitted today; guns brought down from the States and the only music played here in bars is the worst of gangster rap.

Falling Deities

We went on a great Mexican gubernero tour yesterday at the famous Tulum ruins. By the time the Spanish cast their eye on Mexico the Maya were gone. 

Only Tulum lived on as a Mayan city. In 1511 a Spanish ship accidentally crashed off the reef of Tulum leaving only two Spanish survivors: A Catholic Priest and a Soldier. They came to live in Tulum. 

At that time the Royalty situated in the main city, open only to the upper crust, treasured obsidian glass so they could watch the solar eclipses. The astronomers measured, like the Irish and ancient Britains, the precise time of the solstices and equinoxes to the very day and time so the edifices show first light through small windows or temple gates, of the regressing or returning beam of sun. 

9 years later, after the ship wreck, the Spanish came again. This time intentionally. The soldier wanted to return to Spain. The priest however had married Mayan royalty and had a large family. He had no interest in regresso and thus in Mexico the first Meztizos were born. 

The buildings of Tulum sport fabulous carvings of deities, each corner a massive head and face: the Maya practiced head and eye binding to replicate the deformities brought forth from interrelational marriage: like the royalty of England, Russia and Egypt: if the family tree doesn't fork, with it can come some physical problems. 

The Maya had 13 sky deities and 9 down below. On the carvings the sky deities are all upside down.

They are shown falling from the skies.  In fact they look they have just rocketed down from heaven. Precisely what the Maya intended and it reminds me of  "The Man Who Fell to Earth" a disturbing movie with David Bowie about an alien who came to earth to find water for his dying world but just got interested in drinking and watching TV and gave up. 

If you watch "War of the Worlds" by Stephen Spielberg, the aliens rocket down from the sky on lightning bolts. The carvings kind of look like that. 

No wonder that weird Swiss guy in the 1970s era posited a theory that all of the Maya culture was a result of Alien intervention. From "Chariots of the Gods" to " Ancient Aliens" there is his  assumption that all of us, from Egyptians to Irish to Maya, were too stupid or too primitive to figure out how to build stuff on our own. 

Humans 10,000 years ago were just as smart as we are all today. And we, over this time, have created agriculture, enormous temples, strange paintings, head binding, mascara, computer chips, math, linen,  glass and space flight.

 And that is just to name a few. 

The "Luvahs" and Covid

I am now 56 and a sound world traveller. All the people who travel now are either boomers in their 70s or rich "jungvolk" in their early 20s. So nosotras are a bit out of place. People our age usually have children and teens and university to pay for. 

By the small pool the rain soaked everything. 6 rooms and Dutch, English and Americans kids would check in sporadically.  I greeted them and tried to ask questions to get them to relax and enjoy the hotel. I realized suddenly I may sound like the infamous "Luvahs" from SNL. Did I really come across like some creepy weirdo?  (sans the 'lovah' stuff)  "Let me introduce myself: we are the Professors Catherine and Beth Klarvins...are you here with a 'lovah?"

I started to get depressed at aging but then realized when I was a 21 year old back packing around India alone everyone there thought I was weird. 

I remember in Goa walking near a cool beach market when a French heroin hippie, likely 35, came out of nowhere and started dancing around me with a tambourine, cigarette dangling from her leather tanned mouth: "You are magical" she said dancing and dancing: "too bad you're going to die so young"

That strange prophecy has haunted me to this day. Have I dodged it?

I wonder what "young" is. 

Everywhere in Tulum there are countless very young Americans, Dutch, English and a few Canadians. No one wears masks, it seems, unless you are Canadian. 

I don't think most Mexicans are vaccinated. Our hotel guy today told me he didn't believe in vaccination: "I feel fine." "Yes" I replied "until you get really sick with COVID"

He looked down and then looked worried. Then he said "I think we need to reduce the population so earth can heal from global warming. So it can breathe again. 

This Malthusian viewpoint is quite popular amongst the many New Age hippies who frequent the vegan cafes and yoga huts, spaced out among half built edifices and small shanty huts the where poor labourers hang hamocks and squat. Their families in tow setting up poor shop and living on the unlit streets. 

Tonight the young Gringo women nearby, all Barbie doll legs and and sarongs sing and chant and egg on homeless Mexicans who walk on the rain soaked road to play some drumming. 

It's authentic.  

A Point of Contention

"Four Points by Sheraton". A premium hotel at a premium price by the airport. I didn't expect chocolates on the pillow but the really large and spry cockroach standing on the bed busily waving her (very long) antenae at me was not a welcome sight. When I complained to the front desk the response was "Eww I will change your room" and then the hotel clerk promptly put us in the room right next door. 

"Do you not know cockroaches go through walls, plumbing etc...and putting us in the room next won't change anything?" I thought, but it's one night so I gave up. C on the other hand couldn't sleep at all, the thought of crawly roaches on her face tormented her. 

Like me, she is an old school Torontonian who lived in some of the most disgusting of roach infested apartments, from which we still have PTRT: Post Traumatic Roach Terror. 

Somehow it doesn't bother me as much if, for example, we are in Latin America. Christ...it's the tropics after all. But Mississauga in November bleh. There's something quite unsettling about it. 

Not to mention the "premium" price. 

GPS tries to Kill us Again

I think Glynda the Possessed Evil GPS in our former car rental decided a new method to try and get rid of us.

I had earlier described her attempts to have us straight off a mountain and dead.

Putting in an actual hotel address from Bom Jesus de Monte to Porto filled me with confidence. This time she would not be able to trick us...

However her new ruse was to drive us straight into Porto, right at the height of rush hour, on a Friday, and confound us so much we would have a heart attack simply from stress.

From her taut British accent I can only imagine the malevolent chuckles she produced privately which we were not party to.

Her first rule of order was to reassure us over and over that our destination was less than a kilometer away.

An ancient man sees us drive into his shed then try and back up. He smiles and waves.

GPS into action: Next, sharp rights and lefts, then she had us driving along a sidewalk: yes a real sidewalk with trees and things.

Then "next sharp right!"...again on the same sidewalk. The old man smiles and waves at us again as we drive along tram tracks. Yes tram tracks - walled tram tracks.

Follow Glynda and she demands we go the wrong way into an active roundabout while we again drive the sidewalk and the ancient man smiles and waves as we drive by.

Catherine forces the car with a monster deductible into a real road like a mother cat holding a small China figurine in her mouth, so Glynda can GPS things other than that guy's driveway.

With my guide book, ripped pieces of paper and a "tourist map" I come to accept what I suspected all along.

We are not in the Vila De Gaia de  Nova of Porto. Rather a far, far suburb north of the new football stadium. Probably 20 km away.

I just program the nearest big street and follow Glynda hoping she will take mercy.

The rain is pouring and the fog so thick we can't see a foot front. She tells us we are at destination. I jump out and find a teen walking by.  "Falar Ingles?"

"Yes, of course" 

"Do you know where this hotel is?"

"Of course just walk up the stairs ...there". The fog was so thick I could barely see the car.

We pulled up to the hotel and the car rental guy was waiting for us.

Catherine says we would have been here hours ago but your GPS got us lost all the time. It tries to kill us I added.

"So I hear this all the time, I don't think GPS works so good in Portugal"

Silver, Money and Gold

The Casa De Infante Museum in Porto is an excellent review of the layers of history.

First start with Roman Portugal, then known as Lusitania, and great houses, estates and trade routes from before the time of Augustus Caesar spread along the river bank.  The Portuguese do not seem hostile to the notion of Roman conquest and appear to be proud of their Roman forebearers.

Then to the early then late Middle Ages; the site becomes a mint.  The kings and assorted dukes, councils and ruler types mint coins of silver.  A valuable metal that became equated with the value of a thing: a cow, cloth, wine, bread, swords and hired hands.

After a few hundred years of non-stop war and pillaging, silver becomes scarce. With no new mines in Europe, from which to get silver, currency becomes scarce. Then you have no new money with which to pay your mercenaries, boat makers, saddle makers and shoe makers, all of which are necessary to make war and wealth.

In the 14th century all of European nobility loved nothing better than to make war. For them it was a glorious thing. The downside was that you would go to hell or at best purgatory because of all that, well, killing your fellow man.

The only way to find new sources of silver was to travel out of Europe. Thus began the "Age of Discovery" as it is known here.

In the meantime the mints in Porto figure how to make molds to pour the silver and put "reeds" in the standard coin, the familiar divets we have around most coins today.

Before the divets people would shave and shave the coins smaller and smaller then "re-mint" the scrapings. 

Money was becoming scarce, very scarce and just in time, happily, the ships of Porto find Brazil.  First the only goods shipped back were "cats, nuts, parrots and slaves". Not a valuable haul apparently.

Soon after they then find silver and gold and gold and silver and more gold.

Soon the country has more wealth than they knew what to do with. Gold, silver, Brazil wood, sugar, coffee and slaves: an abundance.

Ironically the Church of Saint Francis Assissi sits in the center of a strange social triangle.

The wealthy as I noted in an earlier blog, know that to kill is wrong and that killing will send you to hell etc...

Earlier Saint Francis grew to renown (and controversy as did his order) by renouncing all property and possessions: living among the poor and despised and caring only for them. His sanctity lit a fire in Europe and he was soon joined by Saint Claire, who also followed the example of poverty, renunciation of property and communal ownership.

The wealthy, terrified by the omnipresent fear of hell and eternal anguish, did their  best "please Jesus" manouver, as logic dictated at that time: give as much gold and silver to the monasteries as you could - they after all are blessed by heaven; give gold and silver to artists; create great art to glorify God (though even if you are only thinking of glorifying God, ensure the artist sneaks in your likeness praying beside the ubiquitous Manger or Calvary scene.)

Make it all out to Saint Francis and poor Claire. Give Francis gold dust stigmata and Claire a wreath of silver, gold and the finest of Brazilian wood carvings.

In the church of Saint Francis the wealthy poured 660 pounds of pure gold taken from Brazil to gild every inch of fantastical rococo wooden carving.

The sculptures honour God the Father, dominant in his high throne now holding a round globe in his arms; Jesus Christ, who suffers terribly and Mary who mourns incessantly.

All the wealthy lived in fervant hope that the money they had cast so devoutly would see them eventually arriving on the sunny side of the street.

My Corona

Europe, Portugal included, is in terror of the Novel Corona virus.

Catherine sneezed at the ticket office in a Palacio yesterday and a man behind the desk got into crash position, hands over head and yelped some rough prayer.  The three other staff teased him about his over reaction.

 "He's afraid of Corona": I asked? Yes they all said,  laughing.

"I don't have!" Catherine replied loudly.

Upstairs Catherine sneezed and coughed again and a woman on the 6 person tour nearly jumped out of her skin and half jokingly wrapped her scarf around her face.

"We all have to be careful these days?! Yes?!" She said.

Anyone you know who descends from Europe lives the inheritance of one lucky beast.  One to two thirds of Europe's population (most likely on the higher percentage) died in what is now known as the "Black Death" therefore those here today are the descendents of the few who made it.

Not that Corona is anything like The Black Death.

However the news doesn't make people any calmer, running non-stop news feed on the issue. The usually more level headed BBC focuses in Tory fashion on the impact on business, which is beginning to get really irritating.

So far I haven't seen any outright xenophobia or racism, likely because the largest outbreak nearby is in Italy.

Almost all the tourist here currently are Brazilians and a few Spaniards and Brazil has only a few cases, Portugal and Spain none.

Nonetheless the country takes precautions. At our Porto hotel this afternoon, a latex gloved staff member wipes down all the elevator rails and buttons with disinfectant discussing with me whether "it" can be stopped or whether it's inevitable that Portugal will see the arrival of Corona.

So in the meantime it's wait and see while people nervously eye the shared cocktail peanuts.

Glynda the Hated Gobal Positioning System

I hate the GPS I have named Glynda, in the Jalopy we rented from Turistcar.

She has tried repeatedly to murder us by telling  us to take "the next sharp right" (in a taut British accent) so that we drive over a cliff far, far down and into the bottom of the Duoro Valley.

Boom.

Three days ago we were terribly lost in the mountains of the Douro with Glynda driving us up sheep trails; then down into vineyards overlooking really breathtaking views but no roads to speak of.  We reached a small town as it was getting dark and quite cold.

I walked around the village yelling "ola" and "securro!": help. A woman came some time later trying to program malevolent Glynda. "She is nuts" the woman said.

Her children arrived home from school in a small bus the mountain kids take to school.  Her husband walked up behind furious that our car was blocking the tiny road.

Our Mary of Empathy tried to show a long road two mountains away that we might want to follow to get to Villa Real. Husband shut that down and we rumbled on our way despondent. 

The small bus pulled in front of us and stopped and then motioned for us to follow  him.

It was dark now and the small bus guided us through some of the toughest mountain roads and terrain I have ever seen.

Sheep/vineyard roads older than the Romans; twisted, winding with no barriers, sheer drops; our friends wait for us if we slow down.

Finally to a main road. 

He gets out and tells us to now just follow the signs. Pointing the direction to Villa Real.

It is now pitch dark and I walk up and warmly hug and kiss both cheeks in gratitude.

I teared up I relief. His co-pilot wife laughed.

We found our way.

A few days later we started off to Braga.

All the way Glynda insisted we drive there by way of Spain and at times Brazil.

So then I bought a map.

Weird things we saw today

All travel involves immersion in different cultures. Today we saw a number of things that, from our perspective, were just weird.

Number one: amazing metal hammered reliefs and carvings in the Cathedrals of Porto. However at the Last Supper it seems the meal was, umm, a puppydog? Maybe this means something? Bad artistry?

Number two: From Fatima, we are used to the rather physical votive candles: the assorted weird limbs, babies, severed breasts but a soccer ball?! You really think Jesus is taking time away from preventing earthquakes or saving drowning people to make your soccer team win?

Number three: Saint Nicholas the Patron Saint of children: three kids were kidnapped and beheaded and stuffed inside a barrel. Then Saint Nicholas went and prayed for them and they sprang resurrected from "a pickle barrel".

Number four: the saint that got all their teeth pulled out. She stands waving a big pair of plyers with a big, gross bloody tooth in the tongs. Patron saint of toothaches and those without dental care.

I think that's one important Saint.

Number Five: absolutely disgraceful behavior of Glasgow football fans last night. They took over the Ribera pier: preparation for the game against Braga.

Probably a thousand tanked Glaswegians, smashing glasses, bottles, chanting and puking and pissing everywhere.

They were so bold they actually broke open a water main and had it flowing down towards the river so they could have an active toilet /vomiting area in a small street next to the square to purge;  "have a slash" and resume the festivities.

Number six: normalize the worst.
































Number two:

Porto Goes Through a Change

We were in Porto 15 years ago when very few tourists went to Portugal. I guess we were in The Age of Discovery from a turista point of view.

We now remember we had had a miserable few days in Coimbra when a fierce gale hit, turning the city into a river. Soaking shoes, filthy laundry with nary a place to even wash it. Slipping on greasy cobblestones cursing the heavy backpacks and foul weather.

Just before the storm hit we went to an ancient river gate, just as the winds turned.  A few medieval statues stared down at us surrounded by cold stones.

 I knew in my bones that hundreds of years ago plague victims were quarantined here and left to die.

You could feel a vile chill. I can't describe it anyway else. Inquisition, cruelty and man's inhumanity to man.

Out of Coimbra we arrived in Porto via train.

With the guide book that sadly tried to rouse us about the glories of the "gritty" city of Porto, I urged Catherine to look at the brilliant azelujos tiles that graced the train station.

Hauling a wet and now smelly backpack of dirty, heavy clothes meant she was about as interested in the walls as I would be about staring at old concrete.

I can't remember our hotel. Only that we walked through crumbling infrastructure, pitted roads down to Ribera.  There was garbage everywhere. The buildings were faded and sad.

We walked to the Port Vaults and the few open were neglected and you got a brief and impatient tour.

I remember saying to Catherine that if they got money and renovated this place it could be a gold mine. Fix it up, all the medieval buildings, river, boats. Put some cafes in they would have a bonanza.

So from the mouth of a babe. Porto did just that. The EU invested gobs of money; Portuguese renovated the city, still a work in progress.

We can barely recognize the cold, dead harbour that thrives now with boats, tourists, cafes, art and new bridges, revamped palaces, small enchanting cable cars and revenue.

A restaurant owner, 35, tells me it all started in 2010. He, like me, can't believe the changes. But he laments the change though it benefits the town. With the investment the rents increase and old Porto, the heart as he calls it, is pushed out.

Gentrification, I say? "No not really like that. It needs to happen. But just in a more balanced way. I think, I hope we can do that."

Alcobaca

Yesterday to the very interesting town of Alcobaca. The site of a huge monastery home to 999 Cistercian monks at its peak praying in non-stop shifts.

Remember, back then, the warrior class really took the Commandments seriously. They knew what they were doing was wrong but counted on the power of numerous poor monks and nuns to intervene on their behalf by praying. The Knights and kings were confident that the endless prayer cycles by those so holy and devout would weigh in their favour and reduce their time in purgatory.

 They donated gobs of wealth to keep the prayers going making these houses of simple wealthier and wealthier.

The Cistercian were the silent ones begun by St. Bernard of Claireveaux who galvanized Europe by preaching the 2nd Crusade.  Many think he did so in part to rid Europe of the detritus of nasty knights who pillaged and murdered their fellow god-fearing Christians.

What better way to get the proverbial kids who wouldn't move out of the basement, away than lure them away with gold, riches and the opportunity to slaughter new populations.

As impressive as I've ever seen.  The ceilings at least 20 meters straight up on tall stalks of thin columns jutting sraight to what looks like heaven.

A beautiful and peaceful garden with orange and lemon trees where the monks meditated.

Now not sure how much the monKS actually meditated. You go to the kitchen and a giant chimney indicates how much delicious food the monks enjoyed. There, two marble slabs over 20 feet in length and 5 feet in width where the many lay brothers (servants) worked non stop to ensure the bigger brothers were sufficiently stuffed.

Apparently the order was shuttered when stories of the decadence and outrageous conduct of the monks became too much for the church to sweep under the carpet.

So now the marvel of architecture sits empty of persons other than the tourists that wander the cloisters our jaws awed by the enormity of it all; and still pondering how generations of stone masons and their children constructed such a thing namelessly, only for the greater glory of God.

Obidos and Penises

We are in a beautiful medieval town, Obidos, featuring small cobblestone streets, enchanting street lamps, a pillory (for whipping 14th century wrongdoers) and a very impressive castle.

Every July the town features a huge medieval fest and the inner walls of the Castelo sport faux 12th century stables and stalls in readiness for the trip back in time.

The town also holds court in December as Christmas central where throngs of tourists come to celebrate the holiday.

Starting in April, tour bus after tour bus arrive making the streets impassable given the number of visitors.

 We are however in the bottom of down season so we have the town to ourselves.

Still small tourist shops line the streets thicker than Niagara on the Lake but sport some interesting items for sale.

Many cork purses, hats and shoes; the ubiquitous tiles, Our Lady of this and that and then surprisingly, Umm Dildos.

In a Christmas and kids theme store, Catherine came from the back where all I saw were charming felt and wool animal hangings. "Uh there are all these Dildos back there...not sure what that's about" she said.

"Really? I don't believe you" "Go see for yourself" she says.

I push by the wool angels and farm animals and she's right: about 25 huge ceramic dildos, many in charming hand-painted azejula blues with fascinating patterns.

I go to the proprietor trying not to break the tiles or pottery. I had my backpack after all.

She was a pretty cool woman in her 60s, playing Leonard Cohen and singing to  "So Long Marianne" aloud, one of my favorite Cohen songs.

As I suspected, it was a weird local cultural thing, like the Spanish "shit log" featured in some Spanish nativity scenes where you get Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, shepherds and ummm...a guy taking a dump.

"So what's with the Dildos?" I ask

She begins laughing: "the penises!? In my village 5 miles from here the king came in 1874 and held a big feast for the people. But he asked that instead of the usual gifts you give the man who hosts the feast, he wanted gifts which were jokes.

So a man who is a ceramicist brings a huge penis to the king.  Everyone loves it and from now on it is a symbol of our town. In our town they are everywhere by things for children. It's no big deal.

Then she called to find out how much a taxi would cost to go to her town, where we could pick up a rental, and what time the buses went.

Hotel Unhappy

The hotel we had stayed in the last few days will not be identified. However it was owned by two Northern Europeans who were also clearly Buddhists but do not reside there.

I don't know how many times it is possible to get your self photographed with the Dalai Lama, but these two seemed to have broken some record.

Strangely enough for Buddhists, they make it clear  that they will not employ Portuguese.

Therefore the managers were Polish, the grunt staff Nepali and Tibetan and a weird assortment of international men of mystery ran other things; I still don't know the nationality of Pretty, the bizarre cat who stalked the back garden to near bird extinction, but I assure you she could not be of Lusitanian origin.  No Portuguese staff.

Perhaps the most disturbing is that the absent owners decided that the art to adorn the walls of the cafe/lobby were sketches done by a friend who underwent intense Gestalt art therapy.

I did ask about the "art"..to a Polish manager suggesting maybe guests didn't want to eat "breakfast included" subjected to some person's inner demons. I shall post them tomorrow.

In fact I commented that, given the etchings, I think their friend should be in jail. The weird  Polish manager burst into a quiet snigger.

The strict rules of the hotel forbid tipping anyone except collectively. 

Then there was the soap: in the effort to reduce all things of waste and the world  we were alloted what appeared to be a chocoate cube sized piece of soap.  We did make it last three days but I was getting tired of scratching the shower floor for Quality Street size remnants.

The staff all seemed out of it, including the Polish manager who just yawned all the time or said she was confused, and I began to think might be on opioids, because she asked me one day whether she should show me my room or put our stuff in the safe. 

And we had ummm been there two days.

The male kitchen staff glared at us; the central Europeans just played on their phones, and couldn't answer basic questions: "what is at the ancient art gallery?"

"I don't know...art?.."

The Doll Brothel

Fado is the sad blue song of lost love, country missed and the whims of fate: thus Fado.

We went to the Museo de Fado yesterday. Fado came from working class and proletariat roots born in revolutionary anger.

The "Fadoists" as they were called were one eyed men who played guitar and threw knives at people to intimidate them. They were men and women of the streets: ruffians, thieves and whores.

The famous painting of the Fado player singing to his Mistress who had some huge stilleto scar on her cheek gives you a feel of a time and place of poverty, grub and a Dickensian dignity.

The Fado museum had many treasures but none more weird than this.

A famous sculptor who I think drank a lot made a very realistic dolls house with small furniture, living rooms, kitchens and bedrooms.  However it was a doll brothel to celebrate Fado's gritty roots.

Each tiny bedroom had tiny black and white photos of women of the evening in 1900 states of undress.

A strange  play: Ibsen: The Doll's Brothel