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.