Letter from Espargal: 23 of 2008

In a perfect world, I would hire a man to ensure that everything in the house worked properly – or, at least, was fixed as soon as it broke. Yes, I know that in a perfect world nothing would go wrong. And yes, the fixer might also be a woman. If women qualify as Anglican bishops - have you been following that debate? – one can hardly deny them fixer status.

But I stray from the point. Because the world is not perfect, the struggle continues to keep things working. Part of the struggle has been with my internet provider, Telepac, an offshoot of Portugal Telecom. Each day for the past week my connection has gone down for several hours, coming back in the evening - until Wednesday when it died altogether.

Each day I phoned the Telepac support line to report the problem. Their technicians know that clients often blame Telepac for problems that originate at home and doubted my word, especially as the fault had been fixing itself. Finally they admitted it and promised to fix it. I got the connection back on Friday but only after phoning them yet again, to hear that I had to reconfigure the router first. I can carry daily burdens as well as the next man but life without the internet amounts to cruel and unusual punishment.

Also out of action is my hard-working strimmer. After several years of strimming, I found that a small flexible cap that serves to inject petrol into the cylinder at start-up, had cracked. So when I pressed it, the petrol squirted over me rather than into the machine. Getting a new part was easy. Fitting it proved more complicated. As I write, the strimmer is lying in pieces on the workshop floor but I still haven’t worked out how to extract the old cap and install the new one.

The strimmer’s last outing was at the start of the week when I went to help
Leonhilde and Jose-Luis clear under their carob trees ahead of the August picking season. They’re both aged around 70. Jose-Luis, a heavy smoker with health problems, is capable of little physical work so the burden has fallen on his wife. If I’d known what I was letting myself in for I might have thought twice. In my mind’s eye I saw the tractor doing the work, tearing out the undergrowth and levelling the area under the trees. This is the usual practice as it makes for easy picking when the beans are later knocked down with long poles.

In this instance, the plot that wanted clearing was on the south face of a steep, rock-strewn hill. Using the tractor was out of the question; it was hard enough negotiating the slope on foot. The trees had been left untended for several years. A forest of suckers sprouted around them and a jungle of undergrowth beneath them. The suckers come from the ungrafted part of the tree and are useless. They simply steal the tree’s energy and should be taken off every year.

I attacked them with long-handled loppers and used the strimmer on the undergrowth while Leonhilde hacked away with a hoe. From time to time Jose-Luis did a little raking or pruning. Mainly, he sat smoking - I've never seen him without a fag in his mouth - and repeating forlornly “Eu nao posso fazer nada.” (I can’t do a thing). It was really quite sad.

Over two mornings we got quite a lot of work done – although that’s only the first of half a dozen plots requiring attention. I reflected that this was how my ancestors had spent most of their lives – and millions of people still do - scraping a sweaty living from the hard earth. Even as a weight loss regime, it has little to recommend it. Little wonder that the younger generation has fled to the cities, leaving the old people, who know no better, to cultivate the land.

More immediately, the difficult part of this neighbourly arrangement fell upon Jones, who had to manage the morning dog-walks in my absence. That’s four beasts – plus Zeferino with Bobby. The first day she took them out in two shifts, facing loud protests from the parties left behind. The second day I took two with me, and that worked quite well. Raymond continues to eat us out of house and home – quite literally; anything made of wood, plastic or cloth is liable to be chewed up. His energy, like his appetite, is boundless. The other dogs flee indoors with us for a little peace and quiet.

Another struggle, one that we’ve become caught up in, is Natasha’s campaign to gain residency in Portugal. She came to me with a letter she’d received from the authorities, informing her of the documents she would be expected to present at an official interview. These include a tax return and receipts from her employer. Officially that’s me. I signed her work contract but, like her unofficial employers, we pay her cash in hand.

NATASHA
So we went to an accountant in Benafim to seek assistance. The good news is that it’s all being sorted out. The bad news is that we are both liable to a fine; she for handing the return in late and I for failing to fill in a tax form, relating to her employment, that I knew nothing about.

Natasha was puzzled that the same English word, “fine”, could serve to describe both a penalty and a pleasant day or excellent state of health. My “Word Origins” book says both meanings come from the Latin word, finis (end) along with lots of other words like final, finish and finance. It’s a truly excellent book, by John Ayto, should you be interested.

On Thursday, Jones threw a small party for our expat neighbours to celebrate the final sunset of her 63^rd year.
PREPARATIONS
The intended venue was Espargal’s rocky hilltop, 100 metres above the house. But the wind was gusting so fiercely that we fell back on a knoll beyond the summit, in the lee of the gale. I took up plastic chairs and tables on the back of the tractor, followed by a tub of drinks covered in ice (which Jones had been making for days) – and finally a car-load of goodies that she had spent the day preparing. Sarah and David, whose cottage is close by, assisted with a table and chairs of their own. The site proved a much more sensible, if less romantic, venue for the occasion. We toasted the sunset and wished Jones all the best for the year ahead.


She says she feels just as fit and well at 64 as she did at half that age, and if you saw her in action you’d believe her. When my back and joints are well disposed, I feel the same way. There are days, however, when I wonder whether we are simply vehicles for our genes.

Jones’ birthday was on the Friday. It was a run-around day. First came the usual crack of dawn (at least that’s how it seems) outing with Zeferino and the hounds.Then I went to fetch Natasha from the bus; she was working an extra day for us, part of a trade-off for her share of the social security tab that we pick up on her behalf. She spent most of the day cleaning our huge windows. We left her to it while we went to a birthday tea with neighbours, and then on to the Alte Hotel for a glass of wine and a sandwich. One really goes to the hotel for the magnificent views as much as anything.

In the afternoon I returned to the accountant to pick up the monthly receipts that I ought to have been giving Natasha. He had kindly filled out a bookfull of them on my behalf. For all his work, including her tax return, he charged me just 20 euros. I could hardly credit it. I’d expected a bill well into three figures and told him so. Then I ran Natasha back into Loule and dropped the strimmer off with the agent, having destroyed the clip holding the cap in my attempts to replace it.

Finally we joined all the gang up at the Hamburgo for a delicious lamb casserole. The restaurant is run by Manuel and his wife, Graca (soft “c”). She’s the cook, and a very good one too. For her lamb special they ask only a little advance warning. We sang happy birthday to Jones and brought back the bones for the dogs, who fell on them. We finished the evening as we often do, seated out on the front patio, sipping baggies, slipping biscuits to the dogs and gazing across at the lights twinkling on the far side of the valley. Maybe we’re more than just mules for our genes. I’m still thinking about it.