So our travels have ground to a halt. Or have they? I have argued before that the essence of travel lies not in physical motion but in curiosity. Never-ending curiosity. The mind is a butterfly.
But still… We had wanted to head towards Turkey, and from Turkey further east. It doesn’t look like that will happen any time soon.
Late December, on my own in Portugal’s southwest corner while Charlotte was in the Netherlands for a couple of weeks:
Night had fallen without making a sound. The clouds I had seen forming below me, just above the surface of the water, had moved in to shroud everything around me in a fine mist. And there in that misty darkness, not three meters away, stood, immobile, a fox, waiting for me to notice it, gauging my posture, anticipating my moves. It must have been waiting for food, but that never came and in the end the animal retreated into the fog, as stealthily as it had come.
Fast-forward to early February. We’ll get to what is affecting us all in due course.
I arrived at the airport of Lisbon after four weeks of skiing in the French Alps. Charlotte had decided to make a detour via the Netherlands. The Car stood waiting patiently where I had left it, uncomplaining, reminiscent of the horses that cowpeople used to tie to a beam outside saloons, waiting for their owners to reappear, be it under their own steam or with the help of a few unfriendly locals. Cars, of course, are the natural successors of horses.
With a pang of guilt I noticed that it had been ‘tagged’ by birds who, in their rather finite wisdom, had found no better way to show their disdain for all things earth-bound than dropping their poo on it. The excrements in question were mostly black; there must have been trees with berries around. In spite of its somewhat dishevelled looks, The Car had retained its dignity. Like in that turn-the-other-cheek story in the old book, its superiority had shown in not striking back. You may ask how a car is going to strike back against poo-dropping birds, but one should not underestimate a Land Cruiser, least of all a Troopy.
I found someone who could ‘unmake’ a mistake I had made in Morocco. You see, I had given in to what all car mechanics in Morocco try to talk people into: add another layer to the leaf springs. The first mechanic who had proposed to do that had done an oil change for us, had looked at the car and said, it’s a bit low. I had paid him for the oil change and driven off. Then, as we drove into Zagora, several people had tried to get us to stop. We were told that they were all mechanics who were eager to have something to do, like add a layer to leaf springs. I checked on the Internet and found that for heavy vehicles (we are constantly at our maximum weight) some thought it was a good idea. There was one mechanic in Zagora who had a good reputation. He did the job for us and proposed a few more that even I knew were perfectly unnecessary.
We drove through Morocco in a car that tilted forward, had become more difficult to get into at the back and bounced at the slightest unevenness in the road, and we told ourselves that this would pass. It didn’t, of course.
So when I found a Portuguese mechanic willing to undo that for us, I was happy because something that had been weighing on my mind would no longer weigh. He actually took a different layer off, striking a balance between good performance and a comfortable ride.
Charlotte arrived at the Lisbon airport, so I went to pick her up. The virus had been in the news but was still very far away.
We spent a few days in Sesimbra, well known for its beaches and its seafood, as well as its relative proximity to Lisbon. Every day, we watched fishing boats returning to port, laden with fish that would be on our plates only hours later. Massada de tamboril (pasta cooked in stock, with monkfish and prawns), feijoada de gambas (bean stew with prawns), sole, shared with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years, and life was good.
In December, I had got in touch with someone who said he could renew the canvas of the roof of the car and do a few other things we wanted to get done. But now that we were back in Portugal, he took us to someone else who was going to do the job and who turned out to be busy for the next couple of weeks. In fact, it was only going to be a week at first, but then it became two days more, and two days more, and so on. This was our introduction to the flexibility of Portuguese time.
We went further north, to Nazaré, where big-wave-surfing world records are set and broken and where, on that day, the biggest waves of the season were expected.
The hill that overlooks the small area where big waves are amplified into monster waves by the presence of an undersea canyon were crowded with photographers with impressive-looking gear and people who had, like us, come out to witness heroic deeds being done. The water was abuzz with surfers and the jet skis that were there to tow them to the top of a wave and pick them up at the bottom before they would be smashed against the rocks. People on the hill used walkie-talkies to pass on information about the waves to the surfers.
Occasionally, one of the surfers would get towed into a wave, but there was too much wind and the waves were unpredictable. Just weeks earlier, a Portuguese surfer had been wiped out by a rogue wave and had very nearly been killed. Surely, that must still have been on everybody’s mind. In the end, the attempts were abandoned. There was not going to be a new world record. On the following day, with smaller waves and even more wind, there was no one.
We took a different way back, further inland, and drove through blackened country that had still not recovered from the devastating wildfires of 2017. Initially, eucalyptus trees had been blamed for that. First planted only decades ago for their usefulness in the pulp industry, they had spread, pushing out many of the native trees, and had come to be seen as foreigners that had overstayed their welcome.
But studies showed, not long after the fires, that the causes were a bit more complex. They pointed at the mix of eucalyptus and pine trees, both equally flammable, as well as the fragmented structure of forest ownership and a multitude of owners who had not maintained their plots for years, thus creating an environment in which an abundance of combustible material was only waiting for the right atmospheric conditions to burst into a firestorm.
Inland, fish was still very much on the menu, although here, it was all freshwater fish, and it was offered in abundance.
The virus had by now reached Spain and seemed to be thriving there, but Portugal did not have any reported cases. We felt safe.
In Setúbal, after a two-week wait, work began on the canvas. It would be another three weeks with multiple delays and a lot of frustration before the job was finished. We went to spend a couple of weeks in Lisbon while The Car, as patiently as before, waited for us to return.
Two weeks in Lisbon: not enough! We walked through narrow streets that could suddenly open up to reveal a park, and in the park, a DJ would play vinyl records with fifties jazz. Someone else would arrive, carrying an electric guitar and an accordion, and join in. The ambiance would be mellow and they never asked for money.
Or we could come across a tiny “restaurant”, standing room only, where two pots contained what was on the menu: soup and bifana, a Portuguese pork sandwich that seemed to be, above all, a workman’s lunch but also attracted the occasional foreigner.
We kept returning to Time Out, a centrally located upmarket food court that was visited mostly by tourists but with good reason, as its many stalls offered delicious takes on Portuguese food, such as bochechas de porco (braised pork cheeks from Alentejo pork, a local “branch” of what is commonly known as Iberian pigs) and bacalhau à Brás (a dish based on shredded cod, potato, onion and egg).
The first case of COVID-19 was reported in Portugal on 3 March, in Porto. Italy, France and Spain had many more cases. It began to dawn on us that we were not living in real time. Viruses are crafty buggers. While everyone thinks they are still safe, viruses have been silently invading and at the same time, multiplying. They have been entering houses and carrying off the furniture so to speak. By the time the owner of the house (to stay within the metaphor) realises something is wrong they have a one-week head start and bewilderment is all that is left. We may think we are dealing with now, but in reality we are dealing with what happened a week ago.
So when the time came to pick up The Car (they had done a terrible job), it was obvious to us that it would be a good idea to get groceries for two weeks and find a secluded spot to camp. We went to the spot where I had spent Christmas (see photo at the beginning) and stayed there, in perfect isolation, for nearly two weeks. Until…
The National Guard came to tell us that all foreigners who were camping would have to leave the country within five days. Campsites were closed and camping in the wild was officially not allowed, although it had been widely tolerated. The officers reluctantly conceded that renting a house would be permitted (“if you can find one”). By this time, however, Charlotte had begun to wonder if all borders might be closed. How would she go see her mother?
On our way to the Spanish border, we passed a group of dark-skinned people, women and children huddled together on horse-drawn carts, men on horseback. A somewhat excessive number of police cars escorted them – to where?
The Spanish border guards made us promise them that we would drive straight home, gave us a message to show to the police in case they stopped us and let us through. We drove and drove but were not stopped once. And then, suddenly, all sorts of warning lights came on on the dash. I continued for a few kilometers, stopped at a rest area and started scratching my head, thinking that with so many warnings that seemed to have nothing in common, there must be an electrical problem. That’s when steam began to rise from the engine bay. Two fan belts were missing. We were not going to go anywhere on our own.
A tow truck arrived. A man hopped out, walked briskly right into my comfort zone and began to joyfully bellow out a few pleasantries. In my face. Stunned, I took a few steps back. His country was, already then, one of the hardest-hit by the virus. How could he not be aware of the danger?
A Cuban mechanic (“they treat me like a dirty foreigner here”) installed new fan belts the next morning. The French border guards, seeing our Dutch number plates, waved us through. We had decided to head for the Alps, to our co-owned (with Charlotte’s sister) apartment, and go into quarantine there. We did not want to be a risk to anyone. Somewhere in the very heart of France, we were stopped. The gendarme, after hearing our explanations, said, “but… that’s not allowed!“ and then waved us through.
We’ve been in the French Alps for a almost three weeks now. We had, again, bought groceries for two weeks and we avoided all contact with others during those two weeks. We can be reasonably certain that we were not infected in Spain.
I’m convinced that we can handle the lock-down better than many others. We have developed a way to defuse arguments before they arise. We like to say that we’ve learned to live on three square meters, although that needs to be put into perspective by something else that we like to say: we may have little space inside the car, but when we open the doors in the morning, the world is our backyard. And this backyard, this backdrop, keeps changing: forests, beaches, mountains, desert… Not many people are as lucky as we have been.
There is still a darkish cloud behind the silver lining. The mayor of the village we’re staying in has come to the conclusion that there are people who are staying in their holiday homes and who therefore risk infecting “our most vulnerable citizens”. He has issued a decree making it illegal for those people to stay. After three weeks in isolation, who are we going to infect? Will we, once again, be turned into scapegoats? Will we, once again, be forced to leave?