Portugal: Vida Pura

The stream that pumps water for the garden irrigation system dries up and apparently it wont rain here again until October. = Water Emergency.
Males coordinate transporting the pump to the main river, adjusting valves and pipes and complicated pressure gradients. Thais and I lug 100 5L plastic bottles to the river to fill up with river water, get ourselves stuck in sinking mud and pull each other arse-first into the river, and we're chased away by huge birds with faces like manky cunts, cocking their heads and breathing fire.

Tom drove Brendan, Sean and I along the coast in his yellow camper for a sunset game of frisbee on a different, equally beautiful, equally deserted beach. I don't know who taught me to throw a frisbee but somehow I can do it, I'm a frickin expert..
I also don't know where all the people are or why this coast is so un-inhabited by humans, but it's brilliant.

Spent a hot afternoon fighting with a hundred metres of very heavy and thick hose piping upstairs watering the fruit trees on 'burger hill' (everyone everything fries like a big-mac). Unknown cunt puts it's venom in my thumb. More painful than tattoo, more painful than breaking my leg, I swear.
Continue lizard sculpting, the Portugese builders continue popping their heads around the door to check progress, encouraging nods and 'muito bonito's. 
They weren't checking up when I was experimenting with the best way to smash wine and beer bottles into tiny little mosaic pieces. Throw a hammer at a pile of bottles then duck behind a wall, a flying piece of glass beats me to it and hits me on the eyebrow. Give myself a talking to.
We have also: dug up evil deep-rooted carpet grass with blisters and a pick-axe, carrot seeds sewn, tomato plants tamed, the foundations of a new raised compost toilet begun, burger hill is strimmed, doors are built on the recycling bins to stop the feral demonics, relentless African Tea is pulled up from around the vegetable beds, raspberries and beans and peas and courgettes and cucumbers and strawberries and beetroot are harvested, baby ducks are introduced to their newly built floating mansion..

On the weekend a nearby town, San Miguel, has it's annual street festival. Ole tells us that if we want to go we should go along with him or we'll get beaten up. What he really means is that it's a festival organised by the locals for each other, everybody chips in so that food on the evening is free and medronho (a spirit made from berries grown in the valley) is cheap. He introduces us to some smiling faces and we're accepted into the party. Streets are decorated, singing accordion playing man, traditional dancing in pairs around a square. Pick up a plate and take it to the man gulping medronho and waving a meat-cleaver, who loads you up with raw meat for you take away to cook on one of the huge iron oil-drum fires. Feel sick at the mounds of MEAT but he's too happy to say no to. Follow the sound of whistling to a man grinning and dangling a cooked sausage in the air, waggling it at my face. I guess this means come here and eat this cooked sausage, so I do..

Moneys are exchanged for tokens that are exchanged for medronho shots. Un-labelled glass bottles are pulled out from cupboards under tables, apparently the alcohol content of home-made medronho exceeds the legal allowance. Laugh a lot, dancing with an old indian chief and a dog. Cross-country stumbling route home with a little flash-light, too many rivers to cross and too many right turns left turns, electric fences, paths through corn fields, pot-hole tracks to navigate, a 20 minute walk takes us almost 2 hours. WHERE IS LAMP-POST CORNER. Thais and Gustavo get left behind somewhere and have a 1am power-nap on the side of the road. Until they're woken by the sound of falling piss.

Kut met peren.
Cunt with pear. (Dutch).

Sean's musical improvising... and the return of a confused Frenchman.


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