13: A Home Away from Home

April 4th 2019

The past few weeks have been a strange social whirlwind that have convinced us we could make a home here in Portugal.

Two weeks ago we found ourselves adopted by a community who live between two lagoons and the ocean.

We followed the map to a lake-side spot we were drawn to for the night. We followed a winding sandy road, swerving canyon pot holes, driving sideways at an angle at one point, and wondering whether Snail was going to get stranded in a pool of sinking sand until we emerged in a van paradise.

A landscape of sand dunes and trees with little dirt roads splicing each other creating a maze of perfect park up spots with private front gardens. There must have been thirty vans hidden amongst the greenery. Beyond the hilltop’s edge, a golden sunset beach and the ocean.

The magic about this area was that it was located between two lagoons which were both about 50m away from the ocean, separated by a beach. On one side, a fresh water lake, and the other, the Atlantic ocean, with floury sand between. The pisces in me melted.

After setting up our hammock and recording an outside van jam, we went on a scavenge for firewood when we met two hitchhikers. They saw us making music earlier, and told us about a jam night going on at a nearby bar.

Half an hour later, we were playing our first gig in 6 months, showcasing the tracks we’ve been writing while on the road for the first time.

It quickly became clear we had entered a very different place. The first words of the first person we met were ‘be careful’.

‘I came here in my van in 2002, and never left.’

It is truly a void. Some people had been living there for 30 years.

When we quizzed everyone, there was a cohesive answer of ‘there’s something about the energy of this place’. (After our 5th day by the lagoons, when we made it clear we were only passing through, we began to understand).

Everyone congregated around a bar which was run by a kind-hearted British man. Inside, a normal looking cafe and bar, but outside, dozens of people spilled out to a front garden, with tables spread with beers, people jamming in a circle sat on cajons, instruments in hand, sharing food and dipping in and out of conversation and listening to the evolving jams. A BBQ smoked into the orange evening air, and generations of collar-less dogs freely roamed around everyone’s ankles. There was an old man with white whispy hair surrounded by baskets in all shapes hanging around him. He sat under a tree weaving more as children played around him like a wizard grandfather.

It felt a bit like we’d accidentally walked into someone’s house… but that house quickly felt like ours.

After we performed, we got a familiar post-gig feeling. Everyone knew who we were before we had to introduce ourselves. We’d already shared a piece of ourselves, and this community were quick to reciprocate.

We were given free dinner by the restaurant owner, and free drinks all night. One man even gave us loaves of bread he’d baked in his hand-made stone oven. (And damn, best bread we’ve ever eaten).

Every individual we met was a character. How could they not be in an environment without boundaries? As soon as we’d finished playing - and hugged the 6 people in the circle who had jammed with us like we were life-time mates, an older woman grabbed us and thanked us. There were no ‘how are you, fine thanks’. Within minutes she was opening up about her existential cycles and how our lyrics had made her feel less alone in her downward turn.

No one had anything to hide because everyone accepted everything. A far cry from the streets of London we’re used to. There was no excuse to be anything other than yourself. And it created a 3D movie with live characters unfolding in real time.

We heard hilarious stories about the weird and wonderful ways people had ended up cemented to the place. Histories of the old hippies with timelessly youthful spirits. (You know the Carnation revolution when people put flowers in the guns of the army and peacefully overthrew the authoritarian government - they were some of these people!!).

The Carnation Revolution in Portugal

Simple questions like ‘where do you live?’ sparked beautifully unexpected answers ‘oh, over there in the forest.’ ‘In a hut in the mountains, where I made this moonshine. Want some?’.

By the end of the night we’d connected with most of the people in the bar, and their extended families and dogs and dog’s families like we’d always been there.

After 6 months of mostly social isolation - this was a warm bath for us. And we live in a van, we need baths.

But we realised that we’d also washed over some of the people we’d met. ‘A breath of fresh air’, they called us.

We realised - especially as our stay went on - we’d entered a gift economy. People didn’t play roles or make debts with each other. It was a system based on the energy you were willing to give out - and in turn, that is what you received. We began sharing our music, and were gifted in return, time again in a cycle. We needed a sense of community - they needed a sense of home / a listening ear / a similar mind / a musical connection, etc. What a way to exist, knowing someone’s always got your back.

The next morning we took a walk to the lagoon and already people were gathering outside the bar. Making baskets and drinking coffee in the sunshine. The barman we got to know asked if we’d like to come to his place for some drinks and a BBQ and help him paint his new house.

We decided to flow with life. So off we went.

…with two people and 4 dogs in the back of the van.

As I smelt a dog fart seep through the hatch which didn’t help my hangover, I reminded myself we were FLOWINGWITHLIFE.

We got to Bjorn’s place, which was a classic Portuguese bungalow, which he paid 150 euros a month for. Out the back he kept 4 chickens. Simone fell in love with his neighbours dog. She still talks about her now. We had a BBQ as the sun set and ate on the outdoor sofas in the porch, and the next day, got painting.

We had to use a special thin paint without acrylics because these types of houses suffer in the Portuguese humidity. After the first transparent layer was painted on the dirty walls, we started to wonder what we had got ourselves into. Thankfully, the paint whitened as it dried and within a few hours, and many speckled-dreads on Simone’s head, we were off to a special annual local event we happened to be there for.

Every year, a trail is cut by a digger between the lagoons and the ocean, to form a flowing river. It becomes a local spectacle; hundreds of people turn up to see the moment the two meet.

Supposedly, water flushes out dramatically, causing waves big enough to surf on statically. There were film crews and police to control the crowd. But we watched for an hour wondering what we were waiting for as the water trickled down the trail, until everyone started to leave. Apparently it was a disappointing year…

But regardless it was incredible the following days to see how the water transformed the shape of the sand around it. Dictating the direction - forming curves and islands at its own will, and changing its mind between hours before eventually settling on a course.

That night we parked the van on the hill’s edge overlooking the ocean and cooked on an open fire. Thinking we’d be on our way in the morning…

But as we woke to leave, we found ourselves making baskets with Bernado. We’d fallen in love with him on the first night after we’d seen him passionately playing the spoons. He’s been playing the spoons since he was 11 years old, and likes them ‘because it’s similar to the rhythm of weaving baskets’. His perfection was infectious. ‘No, that’s the wrong weave.’ *pulls out the pattern we just made* ‘Like this’.

Turns out this perfection, combined with the easy-going lifestyle of the place, meant we were making baskets for two days. How could we leave without them being perfectly finished?! (By the end we began to wonder if we were being led to a trap which would mean overly-polite British people could never say no and thus never leave).

That night was a super-moon and also spring equinox. We had a intense 3-way-hug moment before leaving with the British guy who ran the bar (…thinking it was a last goodbye - he found a piece of home in us, as we did in him). We realised the time of the hug was bang on midnight as the moon dimly lit everything around in an eerie glow. Had we found ourselves in a strange energy warp where people enter and never leave and we were it’s latest inhabitants?! Would 30 years from now, people be telling our stories as lost travellers who were found like so many others in a home away from home?

The next day, after missing the tide window due to making baskets too long, we thought it would be rude not to go kayaking with GERONIMO who lifted all the kayaks on the roof of his car for us to join him. He was a welder for classic cars - a job he liked because he got to use fire, like his star sign - and like everyone else - wholeheartedly passionate about what he does. He was the son of the bread man from the first night.

He took us to the hand-built home he grew up in, where his Dad lived with his new partner, next door to his ex-wife (and separated by a fence made by Bernado the basket man). These people are seriously easy going. His family had moved to Portugal, bought some (very cheap) land, built an utterly original and impressive cabin in a week, paid a small fee for building without planning permission, then got to keep it happily ever after. (And in that very moment we realised our life back up plan).

We added a canoe to his car, and drove to the lagoon. 'King of the road’ vibrated out the windows as we drove along the sandy backroads - the first song Simone and I played in Snail when we left the driveway on this journey.

We paddled across the blue, as Geronimo’s dog excitedly rocked the boat (and we despairingly mirrored the movements trying not to sink). We rested, still in the water as we heard about the life of a nature boy.

That night, we brought a guitar to the bar to repay Bernado for teaching us how to make baskets in his preferred currency - a jam with him on the spoons. (Not sure who was the one receiving).

At one point we found ourselves being serenaded by two middle-aged ladies who were the Portuguese answer to Absolutely Fabulous - who drunkenly insisted we needed to understand their culture through Fado music and went into a 5 minute interlude together.

There was a French man who we jammed with on the first night who had supposedly never seen a woman who could play guitar before and found it all too much. No one spoke a word of French, and he didn’t speak a word of anything else, so found himself in a constant bubble of exaggerated noises and impressions which he managed to get by on. Funny how just making a little bit of sense to someone can be the most entertaining joke. ‘Tu es mon petit pois’ (you are my little pea). But a common understanding was found with music, where we jammed - spoon man keeping the rhythm, me and French man noodling with the guitars and Simone singing blues songs about anything that came into her head, with a few spectators connecting the circle, applauding at the end. Who needs a sound system?!

The next day, we were OUT, five days longer than planned. We began to wonder if this was actually a Hot Fuzz-esq community who were planning to keep us forever and sabotage our every escape.

After being given cake from an unlikely baker (a 7-foot tall long-blonde-haired viking-looking bare-foot gentle man called GANGALF), and more gifts we literally couldn’t refuse from Bernado the spoon man, and a hundred dog cuddles and a million reasons to stay - we finally swerved the pot holes out of the void.

But wow, what a magical place. The first real piece of home we’ve found on our journey.

Since, we’ve been ambling our way along the west coast. Making more music than we can keep up with, and watching daily sunsets.

At one point, we thought Snail’s chimney was going to get hit by lightening and realised the fragility of living in a van.

We moved from this tree soon after...

I accidentally ran an almost-half marathon on my intended 20 minute run around a lake and realised Portuguese lakes are anything but round.

We were woken up by the quad bike police for parking in an illegal place (I think we shocked him as much as he did us when he saw two girls half-dressed in bed looking at the view).

We meditated IN a river flowing into the sea (with the waves crashing at eye-level, it was beautiful).

We locked ourselves out of the van and were helped by half a dozen van people to eventually remove our own window to climb back in again.

We ended up in an all-you-can-eat pizza party run by a commune in the forest and found another home away from home.

Okay this one deserves more explanation…

We were sold at ‘all you can eat pizza’ when we first heard about it. Turns out it’s a lot more than that. Over the past four years, what began as a few friends meeting for pizza every week exploded into a 800-person pizza festival until 7am every Friday, run by a commune of 50 people.

(But it’s not just a hippie party place - we heard the commune recently saved up the money they’d all volunteered to make to pay for a lawsuit against drilling for oil in the Algarve. And they WON.)

It’s pretty off grid, in a uniquely teletubby-like landscape of rolling broccoli hills. Half an hour of driving up and over - the only vehicle on the road - to eventually reach a barely-drivable dirt road with more pot-holes than road had us wondering if we’d got ourselves lost. (And descending nightfall is a scary thing for a Snail with dodgy lights).

But suddenly two fields full of vans emerged. Not white grandparent caravans like we’re used to sharing a car park with - people like us. Actually some people exactly like us - within 10 minutes of us arriving we were met by a young British couple who were magnetised to us by the shape of our familiar LDV - their home too. It was an instant festival vibe.

Everyone who lived at the commune volunteered - and were paid in their keep. They were making pizzas in front of us constantly for 4 hours (they even made dessert pizzas, like cinnamon/apple pie vibe but a pizza slice). The space was beautifully handmade. A make-shift cafe and waffles bar made from an old bus. Two stages with projected home-made visuals. Seating areas out of swings and sofas, dogs roaming freely. Then surrounded completely by hills and forest and a fiercely starry sky.

After making some mates, Simone doing the worm, picking people up on her shoulders, giving out massages - her usual - we watched the sun rise over the rolling hills, then watched it rise some more until it was hot enough not to need a jumper, before finally going to sleep as some people were waking.

We drove to a nearby lake surrounded by forests and hills for a lazy day - which we agreed was our picturesque van life moment. We made an outside living room, with a fire, flowers and incense set out, we read books, ate a Thai curry I made, did some drawing and watched the sun turn to stars, as four other van people like us had their days right next to us. A perfect, simple life.

This is how we plan to spend the last two months of our trip. Taking in the simple pleasures of life just how it is. Meeting people who live this life all the time. And finding a way to bring that life forward for us beyond the van.

LOVE

Becky and Simone