Pork - The Other White Meat

No real plans for the day other than “West” and as the beach was deserted, I decided to make that my footpath and see where life took me. The Algarve, on the southern tip of Portugal is one of the Mediterranean’s prettier coasts and this was a fine morning. I was soon joined by a black and white dog and as he too, seemed to have no definite agenda, the two of us plodded along in comfortable silence for most of the day. At lunchtime, we shared a sandwich on an upturned fishing boat but I drank all the beer myself. Eventually we rolled into what I later learned was the tourist resort of Albufeira where I fretted over what to do with my new pal. We'd covered a good bit of ground since we met up and he was surely far from home but no problem, he merely licked my hand and trotted off the way we'd come. Hopefully he made it back.

There's a certain comfortable pleasure when arriving in a new town on foot. Especially if you're not using established roads, but a footpath or some other cross country route. You have a much greater sense of having traveled to your destination and a tiny part of you wants to tell everyone "I walked here, you know!" Certainly, my path from the beach to Albufeira proper took me through a neighborhood I'll bet most tourists don't see. Third world level shanties consisting of corrugated iron sheeting and rotten plywood with open sewers running down the street. Not exactly part of the sightseer circuit, but probably more common than most of us are aware. The town itself however, was a picturesque little ex-fishing village, packed to the gills with British holidaymakers.

I’m afraid to say I enjoyed the company of my countrymen a little too much that night. Most were fascinated to hear I was traveling alone, and without the benefit of a prepaid package tour. So commonplace are these organized vacations, where everything from chartered flight, to hotel, to transport to and from the airport and in some cases, meals are included in the price, that many Brits are unaware it’s possible to travel abroad in any other fashion. Certainly, hitchhiking along the coast as I was doing; wasn’t something any of them had ever considered.

And I have to admit, this being my first time flying solo in a foreign country that I too, had experiencing some misgivings upon embarking at Faro Airport. My plane mates gathered around their respective travel company reps before being shepherded aboard air-conditioned tour buses bound for the resorts, while I merely shouldered my backpack and walked out into the night. A very dark night.
"Go to the front of the airport and catch bus # 39" read my guidebook but despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find anything that looked like a bus stop. Nor did I see anything resembling a bus in the two hours it took me to walk into town. Even so, this adventurism gave me a certain flair in the eyes of my compatriots so I found myself an object of attention, reveled a little too much and awoke the next day with a severe case of partygoer’s remorse.

In the bright light of day, I reasoned that if I was to experience Portugal at all, I wouldn’t achieve that by stumbling from tourist resort to tourist resort. So, it was time to head inland. Having made this uncharacteristically mature decision, I then spoiled it by neglecting to eat breakfast, pack food or even worse, fluids.

Portugal can get pretty darn toasty away from the sea breeze, even in late season and while I was lulled into a sense of false security after a series of quick rides, I soon found myself becalmed on a minor road backwater. My already dehydrated body soon took on the look and feel of a desiccated corpse and I found myself swaying back and forth on my feet. Eventually, a farmer trundled by in his tractor and took pity on me, so in moments I was perched on the back heading slowly towards a comparatively major road which would ultimately lead me to Odelouca, a town of consequence. Not my original destination, but I’ll take it.

Food and fluids, that’s what my body craved and before even searching out a bed for the night, I parked myself at an inexpensive looking hole in the wall. Odelouca wasn’t on the tourist beat so the menu had no English but I was able to pick out the names of some of the dishes. In my feverish state, seafood didn’t appeal but I figured the region’s other local delicacy, pork should be safe enough.

Wrong again Mastermind. It wasn’t the meat itself that was the problem, but the sauce. A greasy looking concoction which may or may not have contained tomatoes in addition to whatever-the-heck it did have that made it smell so bad. If I’d been feeling better I would probably have wolfed it down but as it was, I figured there was a fair to middling chance that anything I ate would end up back on the table shortly after. So, after a few desultory attempts on the vegetables, I called over the waiter in order to give my apologies.

Somewhat naïvely I had thought I might receive some sympathy for my poor health, a cool hand on the brow, an invitation to the manager’s home where I could recuperate, at least a couple of aspirin. Instead, it was soon apparent that I had committed yet another grave error. My sign language pantomime of rubbing my stomach and grimacing hadn’t successfully communicated the reason for me declining to eat. Instead, he thought I was insulting the food. His English wasn’t sufficient to communicate his displeasure so he called for reinforcements. In short order I found myself surrounded by three angry looking men, each jabbering furiously at me, while in the distance I could see two small girls peeking nervously around the door frame.

In the hopes of staving off a diplomatic incident I simply kept appealing to the one who seemed to have a little English

"I’m sorry. There’s nothing wrong with the food. I just don’t feel well. I’ll pay for it, I just can’t eat it." This only seemed to infuriate him and he berated me louder while I yearned for a lie down.

Eventually he snatched up the plate and marched away scowling before returning with my bill.

I figured this wasn’t a good time to ask for the dessert trolley.

A Gem of an Idea

"With these certificates, you can walk into any jewelers in the world; perhaps Tiffany’s in Bond Street and sell these gemstones for over four times what you paid for them." The well dressed man across the desk told me.

I figured this wouldn’t be a good time to explain that I’d spent eight years as a retail jeweler and knew only too well that it didn’t work that way. Jewelry stores buy their wares from wholesalers who in turn buy them from the manufacturers. They purchase their gems from highly reputable gem houses which employ very well paid and extremely experienced buyers to procure top quality stones from mining companies around the world.

What no jewelry retailer on the planet does is buy gemstones from hippies walking in off the street thinking they've brought home a bag of insta-fortune from their trips to Thailand.

"Hey meestah, hey Joe, where are you going?" Every backpacker traveling through Asia learns to hate this phrase. It’s a catch all greeting designed to stop you in your tracks and allow the local to engage you in conversation. Once they have your attention, a few niceties are observed before moving into the meat of the matter. Usually an invitation to a T-shirt factory, or a souvenir shop, or an introduction to a nice young lady.

Many times, the initial story was that they simply wanted to ‘practice their English’ and who would be churlish enough to reject that? Well, I would for one. At least, I would once I’d heard it a million times but this was my first day and I was new to the game. So, late afternoon found me sitting in a coffee bar while a fifty-ish man span me a yarn about how he was a teacher who like me, loved to travel. However, the pay was very poor. So, he took advantage of a scheme promoted by the government whereby he purchased gemstones, then sold them to jewelers abroad to supplement his travels.

I have to say, he was very convincing and if I wasn’t already aware of the scam, I might even have fallen for it. Yet, even with my inside knowledge, he still found a way to hook me. Not by inviting me to buy the gems, but by offering to take me to the factory where I could see them being cut. Like I said, I’d worked retail jewelry for eight years but I’d never actually been to a gem factory and the prospect intrigued me. Oh, I knew there would be a sales pitch sooner or later but I could handle that. I’m no fool.

So, I played him like he thought he was playing me and went along with the gig.

After making sure he picked up the tab for the coffee, I found myself sitting in a tuk-tuk, one of Bangkok’s ubiquitous three-wheeled motorcycle cabs (so named because of the noise they make) and on my way to the gem factory. It was some ways from the city center, so we chatted affably while I enjoyed the ride. All too soon we arrived and after my new friend chattered through the intercom for a moment or two, the door buzzed open and we were admitted to the inner sanctum. I’m not too fluent in Thai, so I’m not sure what he said but I suspect the gist of the conversation was

"Another sucker fresh off the boat, coming up. Doesn’t even have a suntan."
To which I thought
"Ha hah! Not me, matey."

In we went, to be greeted by a troupe of smiling employees. A drop dead gorgeous girl handed me a Coke, a welcome gift in Bangkok’s heat and the tour commenced. Which is the point where I realized that they weren’t going to show me the gems being cut after all. If such a thing happened on these premises, which I seriously doubt, then I wasn’t going to be privy to it. Instead we were getting straight down to business.

Mr. Friendly stayed downstairs, while Miss Cutie led me up to an office where I was introduced to Mr. Smoothie who begain his sales spiel.

First he showed me a sample of a ‘low quality’ gem and compared it to a ‘high quality’ gem. In layman’s terms this can be translated as ‘piece of glass’ compared to a ‘piece of crap’. I smiled politely and let him ramble. It didn’t go on too long really and after a few minutes, he cut to the chase.

"So" he asked, "How many would you like to buy?"
"Ah, well that’s the thing you see. It sounds like a wonderful deal, but I’m afraid I don’t have any money." His composure didn’t falter.
"That’s OK, we take credit cards"
"No credit card either, sorry"

While this was perfectly true (thanks to a bank mix-up, my credit card set off on its round the world trip a couple of days after I did and I didn’t see it until Sydney, a couple of weeks later) the announcement did not go down well.

"Then why are you here?" he asked with steel in his voice.
"Well, the gentleman downstairs told me I could see the gems being cut and that’s what I came to see."

He picked up the phone and jabbered angrily for several minutes before replacing the receiver and telling me coldly.

"OK, you may go."

Downstairs I went, waved a cheery goodbye and was soon back out on the streets. It was a long trek back to the center and I never did see the gems being cut but I did feel pretty good about how I’d put one over on the scammers.

Many months later, a group of us were sitting in a Malaysian café, discussing the gem scam. While we’d all heard of it, one guy had apparently been taken in. To the tune of several thousand dollars on his credit card.

"Yeah" he explained, "They told me I would get to see the gems being cut and that’s what got me to go along. What I didn’t realize was that the drink they handed me as I walked in was drugged, and by the time I came to, I was back on the streets."

I thought back to a breathtakingly pretty girl, handing me a bottle of Coke with a straw in it, and my grateful acceptance. If that one was drugged, and I’m pretty sure it was, then I can’t explain why it didn’t affect me.

But for once, I was kind of glad my bank screwed up with my credit card.

Buddy Can You Spare a Dime?

Poverty Obliterates the Future
~ George Orwell

So I took a walk up the 16th Street Mall today. After a bitterly cold few days the sun was shining bravely through the clouds and as the weekend’s snow is almost gone, there’s a slight touch of spring in the air once more. The breeze was fresh, but not icy and it was a good time to be out of doors.

Of course, I might feel differently about that if being out of doors on a winter’s day was a lifestyle rather than a quick break from the office. Lining the sidewalk were the usual assortment of homeless folk, panhandlers and street people that are a customary sight in the center of any US city. For the most part, Denver’s collection are a pretty harmless bunch and they’re almost always polite. "There but for the grace of doG go I" and all that so I generally try and be polite back.

"Excuse me Sir, could you help me out with some spare change?"
"I’m sorry, I don’t have any today"
"Well thanks anyway, have a good afternoon"

Social niceties observed, I continue on my way and they go to work on the next passerby. Unfortunately, today I ran into that rare breed, the obnoxious panhandler.

"Hey, can you give me some change?"
"I’m sorry, I don’t..."
"Well f**k you then! I apologize for getting’ in your way you selfish b*****d! I hope you never find out what it’s like to be hungry you son-of-a-b***h!" And on and on, while I continued walking and other pedestrians turned to stare.

While I do feel compassion towards those less fortunate than myself and support the charities that help them, I didn’t feel the slightest guilt at not giving money to this character. Not only was he obviously a nasty piece of work, he was drunker than I’ve been able to afford to get in a long time, so he wasn’t doing too badly for himself.

However, he did get me to thinking that in so many ways, I really have been blessed. Not least in the sense that I’ve never experienced what it’s like to be truly hungry. I grew up in a family where starvation meant no more chocolate cookies until the grocery shopping on Thursday and while it may not have been what I wanted, (it was mostly healthy stuff) there was always food in the house. Moving into my own place meant a bit of belt tightening after I made the alarming discovery that the mortgage and bills were very nearly equal to my salary. But even then, careful money management and selective mooching off various friends’ parents meant I could still keep myself fed.

In fact, I can only think of one occasion in my life when I’ve literally been unable to afford the price of a meal for more than a day or so and even that was due to my own carelessness with a credit card. I’d just arrived in New Zealand and after a couple of days in Auckland, the capital was getting ready to set out and explore the rest of the country. It wasn’t till I went to withdraw some folding money that I discovered the bargain plane ticket I’d purchased a few days before had fallen into the same billing cycle as another plane ticket I’d bought earlier so between those and a couple of other withdrawals, I was over my credit limit until they received an auto-payment from my bank 10 days from now.

Not to worry; hardship is character building so I made my way back to the hostel and spread my worldly wealth on the bed. NZ$5.75, about ₤2 or $3USD. In early ‘90s New Zealand prices about the price of lunch. The hostel cost $9 a night and the only food in my backpack was 2/3 of a jar of peanut butter and some noodles. Desperate measures were called for.

First stop was the hostel manager who waved me away in the carefree manner typical of his countrymen.

"No worries mate; you aren’t the first and you won’t be the last. Stay as long as you need to, pay me when you can."

So, with accommodation sorted, the next challenge was figuring out how to keep body and soul together for the next week and a half. Beer was a rare luxury anyway, especially as I’d drunk a large chunk of my round-the-world budget over a span of 3 weeks in Western Australia not too long before. However food, or rather the lack of it, was going to be an issue. Two loaves of bread, another jar of peanut butter and a small can of instant coffee left me with exactly 22 cents for emergencies. People can live on bread, peanut butter and coffee. I could do this.

The backpacker set are a surprisingly honest demographic and it’s not usually a problem to leave your valuables (up to a point) unattended in the dorm while exploring a town. In all my travels, I was only the victim of fellow-traveler theft twice. A brand new guide book walked away from my bed side at a hostel in L.A. That, I could live with. But some lower than pond scum deviant swiped my can of instant coffee from the hostel in Auckland. My one solitary bit of pleasure in the day, and some reprobate bandit pinched it. I don’t care if it was almost fifteen years ago my friend, I’m still on your trail and when I catch you, you’re going to be sorry.

This probably isn’t news to anyone who’s been homeless, or hungry, and it’s become a cliché in writings about the poor but there really is something desperately energy sapping about having no money. I found that just getting out of bed was an effort and filling the endless void of each day an insurmountable challenge. There are free museums and art galleries in Auckland, and walking costs nothing at all but I couldn’t summon the enthusiasm for any of those things. All I could think about was counting the hours until I could return to the bank, draw out some cash and start to live once more. And this was only for a few days. I really can’t imagine what it would be like to face that kind of despair every day of my life. And if I never have to, then as I said, I really have been extraordinarily blessed.

So yeah, I’ve been hungry. Even so the obnoxious panhandler didn’t get any money from me this morning. But you know, the next one along the street?

He did.

The First Bike Ride of Spring

It’s been warm for ages now. It’s not Spring yet, we know that – and there will be plenty more cold days to come before winter lets go but right now, for day after glorious day, it’s been sunny and mild. Willows are turning red, green shoots are appearing and the geese are choosing mates. Not only that, but it isn’t turning cold on Friday afternoon and warming back up on Monday morning like usual, this warm spell is something special. The stars are in alignment and magic is in the air. It’s time to bring out my bicycle.

My friend Raven and I have cycled together before, and while she’s in seriously better shape than me, she’s equally rusty when it comes to two-wheeling so we make good partners. I was at her house in Buffalo Creek only a few minutes late, as the sun was just appearing above the canyon walls. With his back seats folded down, Angus the 4Runner makes a good bike rack and in no time, both steeds were bungee-corded to the roll bar and we were on our way.

The North Fork of the South Platte River winds its way from South Park through Bailey to Buffalo Creek and beyond before dropping into Waterton Canyon where a series of reservoirs provide water for the thirsty lawns of Denver. Once upon a time the Denver and South Park Railway ran on a narrow gauge track where the road now lies, transporting ice from the lakes which were once near my house, to the dairy, which was once near my office. Buffalo Creek Post Office has been owned by the Green family for generations and the story goes that in his dotage, the patriarch, old John Green would walk outside with his stopwatch to await the arrival of the train; even though the trains stopped running long before John Green did.

The South Platte Hotel hasn’t seen business for many a year, probably not since the railroad was torn up and today it’s a semi-derelict shack with plywood windows and holes in the roof. A sign informs us that this is now the property of the Denver Water Board and that they’re considering a renovation project. Nothing is stored inside, so please resist the urge to try and enter. We resisted the urge, entranced as we were with the beauty of this spot where the North and South Forks of the South Platte converge in a grove of cottonwoods. They weren’t too imaginative when it came to naming rivers in these parts but perhaps the early explorers were like us, simply captivated by the scenery.

Soaring cliffs towered above us, while the river, green-white with ice melt tumbled along below. Pine trees stretched to the porcelain blue sky while the occasional cotton wool cloud appeared, just to make the whole vista too perfect to be believable. What did we do to be so lucky?

Angus was soon tucked under a tree and we were rolling our way down a smooth dirt track deep into the ravine. Sadly, we didn’t get too far before the trail disappeared under a layer of thick, blue ice reaching out onto the water. It wasn’t until I was home and reviewing a map that I saw that this was as far as it went; the real trailhead was some distance away, and didn’t rejoin the river for several miles. Maybe we’ll try that one another day. For now though, we didn’t care; it was worth a short ride just to experience the exquisite magnificence of this canyon. I haven’t made it to Alaska yet, but Raven tells me that when I get there, I’ll find it to be a lot like this.

We were still only a dozen or so miles from Raven’s house, so leaving Angus where he was, we set off back up the banks of the river, following the gentle grade as it meandered towards home. Other than a handful of climbers, hikers anglers, and of course, cyclists, few people come down this way and the small number of houses we passed had an air of charming neglect, relaxing little by little with each passing year as the earth gradually reclaims them.

On through the metropolis of Foxton; half a dozen cabins with the old railway station, its log walls sagging and derelict. Raven is a veteran of 3 wild fires and too many flash floods to count so she knew all the people who’d had to be rescued, or who had lost part of their property. She also had names for each of the rock formations so even though I’d driven this way many times; I was seeing the landscape through her eyes, as if seeing it for the first time.

As we rounded a bend, an eagle flapped his way up from the riverbed. A juvenile, but still unrealistically big, his wings flashing brown, white and gold in the sunlight as he headed into the trees. Coming level we saw his breakfast, a dead goat, lying against a river rock, held fast by the current. Its belly slit open, entrails red in the sunshine. In a nearby tree sat a large black crow, waiting his turn to feast. Mother Nature’s recycling program working as designed.

For reasons best known to themselves, the county has spent some time re-grading the road in stretches but it was smoother in the parts they’d left untouched. Still, the deeper gravel gave our legs a bit more of a workout than the gentle slope would have done. Still not too taxing, this is the first run of the year after all, but enough to feel as if we were getting some exercise. Even so, twelve miles go by fast when you’re surrounded by scenery such as this and we were happy to take things slowly.

But, all good things must come to end and too soon Buffalo Creek hove into view. The church parking lot was empty now, the parishioners home for their lunch and the weekend’s chores. They’d spent Sunday morning at their place of worship; we’d spent it in ours. Back to the house and cool water from the fridge, and a sit on the front deck listening to the breeze in the forest and the creek babbling below.

No, the ride wasn’t long enough, and yes, snow is forecast for next weekend. And we may have to rely on the memories of today to last us through weeks of office-bound servitude. But we had our first bike ride of the season, and if any of our future ones are as good as this, 2006 will be a very good year.