Down by the river
Our second day in Vale de Souto led us to a market held on the banks of a nearby river. We drove for about 30 minutes along winding eucalyptus tree-lined roads with the foothills of the Estrella mountains ahead. Both of us could not help feeling completely awe-struck by the beauty of the landscape—almost like California, almost like Australia, almost like the Alpes—it’s funny the innate human need to be able to make comparisons.
We arrived into a small village called Cambas, as we came down through the valley and over a bridge with the river passing underneath and the village to our left, white stone houses formed this traditional little place. We turned right after the bridge down towards the Praia fluvial—or river beach.
Not really knowing what to expect, there were cars lining the banks of the river and people everywhere. Market stalls had been set up on the river bank. People were selling everything from hand-crafted jewellery, organic cotton and hemp clothing. There were food stalls with typical hippy food, falafels, samosas etc and so many people from all over Europe, not just Portugal, with dreadlocked hair, long flowing skirts, all probably with stories of travels to India and yoga retreats, those vegan types who spend a lot of time on acid. In fact some of them looked like they were on acid right now—especially one dancing solo in front of the speaker, twirling and pumping his fists into the air. And another with a frisbee gleefully throwing and catching the gliding flat spherical object like he was having the best day he had ever had. There was a small DJ area creating a mini festival vibe, the sound of healing bowls could be heard, incense wafted through the air, little golden-haired children ran around naked and jumped, one after another into the river.
We took up a space just outside the main part of the market area and went swimming. The water was cool and refreshing, the perfect antidote to the blistering heat of the sun-drenched 40-degree day. Floating on my back looking up to the cloud-dusted, blue sky, it felt wonderful to be in the water—one word kept repeating over and over in my head—freedom.
After a bit of splashing around, we dried ourselves off and wandered back through the market area. The music was starting to transition from healing gongs into the old familiar sound of minimal techno interspersed with a bit of psy-trance. It took me back to my festival-going days; at any moment I was expecting a fire spinning group of hippies to take over the dance floor.
We took up a seat on a picnic bench next to the falafel stall. I went over to ask the dread-locked Israeli guy for a portion of falafel, batatas fritas and beet hummus. De-nada, came his reply, you wait about 10 mins and come back. So we ordered a couple beers and samosas from another stall and waited back on the bench. A Polish girl started chatting to us, she must have been about 25, short hair, with an enthusiastic smile, my name is Carolina, she said—Oh I’m also Carolina…well Caroline, I replied. She told us she was from Poland originally but she lived in Lisbon, she said that Lisbon was a great place to live, lots going on. They were here for this market festival and had hitch-hiked from Lisbon to meet friends and camp over night. At some point she asked us for a lift back to Castello Blanco, should we happen to be swinging by in the morning. Politely we said we would think about it, knowing all to well that was never going to happen.
The samosas came and went, another beer was ordered, 30 minutes passed and still no sign of the falafels. I went back to ask the guy, who now looked like he was a little high and he profusely apologised and said come back again in 10 minutes. We could hear the familiar sound of English and Irish accents behind us. A girl with fiery red hair, another with long straight brown hair, her face framed with a fringe and an exceptionally tall guy with brown and wavy hair stood behind us. Excuse me—are you Irish, Peter asked the red-head. The girl laughed and said no, I’m from Hertfordshire, with a very English, almost cockney accent. Her smile was beaming and her laugh infectious, she had a kind look about her, my name is Bex, she went onto say, nice to meet you and this is Naia, turning to the girl with brown hair. Hi, she said with a slightly northern accent—I’m Naia. That’s a beautiful name I replied, where are you from. Lancashire was her reply. Oh the name is unusual, what’s your background? We asked. Oh no, nothing, my parents were just hippies—I think it means water nymph—which is ironic, because I actually hate the water. We asked them to sit down and join us.
Bex told us she had been in Portugal for 5 years, I love it, I live about 20 mins outside of Oleiros, everyone here lives about 20 mins outside of Oleiros. She laughed. Rob came over and sat down. I’m Rob, he said, sitting down, nice to meet yous-what’s yours names? His unmistakable Irish accent came through strong. After the standard introductions we got talking more about who they are and what they were doing here. Bex had come over with her boyfriend about 5 years ago, they had bought a house for £10k, slowly been working on it, they had their own land where she grew everything from cannabis and tobacco to cacao, fruits and vegetables. She had come over with her boyfriend who was a tattoo artist, she was a teacher, and hairdresser. She hated England, and Portugal offered a far more accessible life.
Naia was a self-proclaimed hippy who’d spent most of her life travelling the world. She had spent a lot of time in India and Bali, where she used to own a jewellery business. She now travels back and forth between Portugal and Dubai, where her boyfriend lives. Rob was a physiotherapist from Ireland, a typically friendly and comical Irish bloke with lots of tales to tell and lots of jokes to make. He got up from the table suddenly to say, excuse me while I fetch my Friend Seiku, he’s just over there—but be warned he is Finnish and he’s is extremely quiet. The Irish bolted off and came back a few mins later with a short, blonde, slightly stocky looking lad. This is Seiku, he introduced him to us. Lovely to meet you I said, how are you? Seiku lifted his head and looked me in the eye, a slow pause followed by a rather sinister sounding—good—and that’s about the only word we heard from him for the rest of the evening.
The man throwing the frisbee was still going strong, the Irish noticed him, I should go and give that guy my number— he’s been throwing that thing around for the last 9 hours, he’s gonna need some physio after all that throwing. Naia suddenly piped up, I know that guy! I met him in India a few years back! Oh year, said Irish, was he still throwing his frisbee then? Naia laughed, yeah…actually he was.
Another round of beers came and went and still no sign of my falafel. I walked over to the Israeli stall again, hey man, any chance of getting some falafel today? He looked down with a very hazy look on his face, I’m so sorry, have you already ordered them, I can’t remember? I chuckled, yes about 45 mins ago, and paid for them too! He scrambled around ok-ok-ok gimme 5 mins and come back.
