The unidentifiable beauty of accepting village life.

“But look at these people in Africa who hardly have anything to eat, or compare yourself with a member of a minority in that, so called, land of the free. You have nothing to complain about!” And yes, it's the truth, there are always people who's lives are more painful, poorer or under threat then yours. But does that take away the unfairness you have to live with on a daily bases, does that vindicate all the moral flattening of the, whilom carefully build up societies of Western Europe in which equal chances for all and supporting measures for the ones that can't provide themselves with daily based needs? When is the first mayor of a big city going to hunt down all the homeless and drive them in to a closed area of town, like the 13.000 chance less people in Los Angelos, living in tents on designated sidewalks, so that politicians, bankers and their powerful lobby sponsors won't be confronted with the outcome of their greed. Of course it's not about us, it's them, those refugees living in inhumane conditions, those mental ill youngsters, prowling thru garbage bins to find anything of use to make some form of shelter, just because politicians decided it's to expensive to keep them in institutions, provide them with the treatment they so desperately need. The Dutch prime minister calls it the “participatory society”, meaning everybody just takes care of themselves, if you can't, you'll have to rely on family and friends and if you don't have anybody to help and support you, you must be a failure, so society shouldn’t waste any energy and financial means on you, in short, you're fucked.

“Isn't it beautiful?” While squeezing herself laterally thru the caravan door, some over weighted tourist got all exited by seeing one of our elderly neighbours coming out of the woods with a big pile of branches on her head. Donna Annabelle lives in a little cottage just up a steep hill, unreachable by car, but with a magnificent view on the Castelo do Bode reservoir, because ones up on a time her parents where driven up the hill when the valley was floated. Deep underneath that clear water lay her memories as a young child and, according to some divers, the house in wich she was born is still standing. “Oh it's so lovely, it looks so French, romantic with those vintage blue shutters and the ivy overgrowing the cottage, you must be a lucky lady!” Donna Annabella doesn't understand a word she's saying. While her husband checks out the damage on the caravan, which he scratched while driving thru the small street with overhanging olive tree branches, she rambles on about the idea of moving to Portugal and live the good live, just like this old lady does in a beautiful scenery between almond and orange trees and a little cottage full of vintage, country style furniture. In the worst form of simple, only single word, Portuguese, I try to explain what she's so enthusiastic about to my neighbour. No, with vintage she doesn't mean being to poor to repair and paint the shutters, and she doesn't understand that the ivy is holding the roof together, Donna Annabella still thinks that foreigners are a strange bunch of people. Who, in their right mind, would want to live the life of a 91 year old woman, who's depending on the crop that's on her little plot of land, the nice lady from the church that helps her with the everlasting paperwork and has to go in to the woods every second day to gather some firewood to cook and have a bit of warmth during the cold nights. The only thing you might be jealous about is her health and strength, she easily carries 30 or 40 kilo's of branches on her head and walks around with it like it doesn't take any effort.

Instead of trying to understand what Donna Annabella is complaining about, the woman goes on about their plans. They must have taken a wrong turn because they ended up at the waterfront although there wasn't a sign that the road was a dead end, and how could they have known that the road would turn in to a sandy trail if there are no warning signs. The campsite they were looking for is just a few kilometers away, but a little devil in my mind made me forget. I went on with loading up my wheel barrel with an old washing machine that one of my neighbours had placed next to the bin. Yes, that's a way of saying; “It's broken, I want to get rid of it, but maybe somebody can use it”. The outside of such a device makes a good tool cabinet and the stainless steel drum a nice barbecue or fire pit, so of course I'm taking it in to the workshop to surgical decompose it and store the parts I think are useful. Hoping that the couple in their Audi A8, that's towing the Dethleffs CaraLiner, will get lost in their own dreams, I push the heavy wheel barrel up the hill. When I look down I see her walking next to the monstrous rut cabin on wheels, trying to bend the olive branches way from the crispy white surface. In the end, I'm sure, they will find the campsite and will meet up with the real estate agent who will show them some romantic village cottages in the beautiful vicinity of Central Portugal.

Unlike in the metropolitan places of the world, the poor are not separated from the more fortunate in  the little villages. There are no Bronx like getto's, no fenced and guarded luxury area's for the rich and famous, there's as easily an old ruin next to a 6 bathroom villa as there's a donkey cart next to the ultramodern diesel powered log splitter. There's a unidentifiable beauty in understanding the everyday life at the rural countrysides that comes with the acceptance of financial poverty, which of course is something else than living a poor life, and taking the fact that others do better for granted. Occasionally Donna Annabella even has to much salad or tomato's at her with lovingly and compassionately manicured garden. She'll put a basket on her head and shares, whatever she can, with her neighbours. Wealth doesn't live in your wallet but in your heart. No, she doesn't except any help regarding firewood or anything else for that matter, but when we put a box of sheets and blankets next to the bin it was collected within a few minutes, something you don't talk about, period. So when a fat lady sings about the appeal of a “French, derelict, vintage style”, not wanting to see what's really going on, she should move to Beverly Hills, where they keep the poor separated from the financially successful ones. If she think's that an income at the level of a third grade kid's pocket allowance is sufficient to live “the good life” it's time to reset her social clock.

We, well most of us, immigrants who came to live among or neighbours in this beautiful country are doing fine. For some the learning curve turns more spirals than others and the first encounters with the bureaucracy aren't always encouraging, however it hardly comes to a point where your neighbours aren't friendly. Most times they keep friendly even if some try to change cultural and historical customs. Never forget they were there first, and that's where my first impression on the fat lady went wrong, if you over sensitive for the smell that the neighbours pork obviously produces, and you're annoyed every morning when the farmer starts his tractor at 6 o'clock, when you complain at the first day, that your luxury apartment on wheels found its place on a rural spot, about the smoke from the pile of olive branches that's greying your laundry, when a barking dog is a reason to lose your temper at a conversation about it, you're not ment to live in the countryside, certainly not the one in Portugal. Yes, I did meet the couple again, trying to get their fully loaded, watertank topped-up, caravan up a steep hill to get from a campsite. The complains above had already surfaced just by spending a few days on the outskirts of a village. I hope they had a safe journey home and come to the right conclusion.....