Traffic; Moby Dick When Least Expected 

That hideous business at the mosque in New Zealand flattened me to the point that I have not felt much like writing of my eventless life, but perhaps eventlessness is what we should all strive for.  At any rate, I am feeling somewhat recovered and routine life in these magical northern reaches of Portugal has leavened my spirits.  Now I’m ready to go on…

The surface roads in rural Portugal, not the wonderful huge and elegant tollroad motorways, but the winding narrow, village streets and byways that meander through the valleys and up and down the hills, are peopled with the damndest array of vehicles you can imagine.  There are ancient two-stroke motorbikes, seemingly Zundapps mostly, that are ridden by elderly men or elderly couples who are invariably dressed in dusty browns and grays and whom we call the Gray Riders, Grey Riders for the Brits.  These intrepid men have 1950s style half-helmets and they throw up a canvass fronts-piece over their torsos in case of bad weather as they wobble along in a cloud of blue smoke.  Usually one or both riders have a plastic bag of goods swinging from their arms.  Not one of them has ever exceeded 18 kilometres per hour.  They seem to ride mostly on the far right side of the road except when the far right side is someone’s stoop or front door.  Also not one of them has a working muffler…Gawdamitey they are loud.

Then there is the usual gaggle of Smart Cars and the cute little Fiats, Peugeots and Citroens but wait!  These cars are mid-sized in Portugal.  The really little ones are only a knot or two faster than the Grey Machines and they are about two-thirds the size of a Smart Car. 

They look like a circus act.  And not only cars, but trucks; trucks designed to carry two people and maybe 100 kilos of load, but that are invariably overloaded nearly to the point of capsizing.

And not only trucks, but farm tractors ranging from garden-tractor size with a sheep or two in the back to immense four wheel drive super tractors pulling vats of grapes or tons of logs; they also are not speed demons.

The speed demons are the people in the big modern saloons who must, absolutely must pass every car they can that will not result in certain death.  Only-probable-death constitutes a passing lane.  The idea is that the normal Portuguese driver simply can not bear the thought of not being first in line, of not being ahead of whoever’s in front.  To encourage the vehicle in front, these desperate speeders follow at about six feet, OK, two meters, behind you.  In the rear-view mirror you can actually see their blood pressure go up by the furlong.  (I don’t really know what a furlong is.)  With all this passing and weaving in and out and blasting of horns, these maniacs get to the next stop light only a few seconds before the line of farm implements and Gray Riders they nearly killed a block or so back.  And the Gray Riders sneak along the shoulder and regain the lead position at every stop.  

But the leviathans the size of Moby Dick are the most amusing.  And terrifying.  They are modern busses and they are simply too big for the streets.  Traffic must give way, back up if necessary.  They are the scariest because the roads are winding and around any bend you can come face to face with one of these monsters bearing down on you well into your lane.  It is unclear to me how I’ve not taken the mirrors off our car yet, nor have been killed.

We’re still puttering along, though and may eventually get our car and moto properly registered in Portugal…there are rumors, rumours for the Brits.  

Meanwhile the local markets are in their glory. It is high produce season and the little village markets are in full swing. Think dour-faced gypsies selling polyester socks sprinkled with centuries of ethnic hatred amid long tables groaning under the treasures of the farms….the farmers jolly and proud. Spitted lambs and pigs offered up on soft rolls and they’ll give you a marketing sliver if you just walk by. Oh my. 

We bought an heirloom monster tomato at one of the cheerful stands and it took two stout farm women using a hand-truck to get it into our car.  Now, normally I don’t write about tomatoes, but this ain’t no mild, grow-light, hydroponic, Presbyterian fruit neither.  Have never experienced such complexity of flavours and richness…of course I aided the sensation with a few shreds of bacon, some salt and pepper and the mayonnaise.  Always the mayonnaise, but through it all there was that marvellous, village-market tomatoness.  

Enough about my Mediterranean diet; just know that life be good.