The 11:30 shots

(Lisboa)

So I walk back to my hostel on the Christmas Eve. I stop for a moment at the Praça do Comércio. The square is flanked by two symmetrical buildings that angles out to the Tagus in an open- armed embrace. To the centre of the square is the equestrian statue of King José I.

At 9:30, on the 1st of November, 1755, Lisbon was hit by a huge earth quake. Known hence as the ‘Great Lisbon Earthquake’ it changed the face of the city in about ten minutes. Soon after the earthquake fires broke out. And what was once the royal palace was now rubble and ash. It was on these ruins that the Praça do Comércio was built, as conceived by the architect Eugénio dos Santos and as encompassed within the rebuilding efforts of the prime Minister of José I, Marquis de Pombal


Tonight the square is illuminated in anticipation of Christmas. In fact my whole walkway is lit by the gold and silver bulbs that hangs overhead like huge luminous water drops. But like the roads, the Praça is also deserted. The silence is slowly getting on to me. I think of the Christmases back home and all I want is to get back to some noise.

So I walk back to the hostel for my Christmas dinner.I know I am missing home...

Once inside the 'yes' hostel, the mood changes. This is undoubtedly the best hostel experience I have had. The place is as warm as the staff here is. I eat and drink my way through the courses of my Christmas dinner. I have at my table republicans and democrats. The venerable lady next to me is in search of the perfect place to write her book. Shirley talks about how her Sri Lankan origins could well be traced back to Portugal. I walk in the drizzle with Antonio and Stephanie and Johny to the Rossio square and wonder aloud why Lisbon chose to remain indoors.

And strangers gather around the counter with their shot glasses to drain it in a single moment of unison. I know there is something about the “jingle bells”. But the clang of our shot glasses as we slam them back to the counter is just as good as the carol ever gets!

Silent Night…

(Lisboa)

They say, Portugal draws into itself on Christmas. Shops stay closed, tourism on hold… And on the morning of 24th, the day turned warm and sunny in Mação. The rain clouds that had hung over the town took the day off. Definitely, there was not much Christmas in the air. By mid- afternoon, I had checked into a hostel near the Baixa Chiado metro station in Lisbon. For, who wants to feel lonely on the Christmas eve.

Miguel of the hostel warned me of starvation in the streets of Lisbon that night. So I signed up for the hostel dinner and set off to take the tram 28 E armed with a map and Miguel’s explicit instructions to get lost in the streets of Alfama. Unlike the interior districts of Portugal, Lisbon is well connected through a network of buses, metros trams and ferries.Trams were in operation in Lisbon from as far back as 1873. The horse drawn affairs of the bygone days have given way to yellow electric carriages. The last major restructuring took place in the 1990 s.

The carriage slowly made its way up through the narrow cobbled streets. At Graca, the driver kindly explained to me that it was as far as the tram would go and it would be convenient if I get out. So I decided to trace the tram line back on foot.

Alfama is the oldest district in Lisbon spreading from the castle of Lisbon to river Tejo. The name dates back to the Moorish times (Al- hamma), denoting baths. Alfama has retreated from its Moorish glory to be one of the poorest districts in Lisbon now. The streets of Alfama winds up and down in rather steep slopes and often you have to close your umbrella to allow a passing tram. I heard the frustrated tram driver yell her way through the cars that inched out of the side-streets unexpectedly. The streets are lined by old three storied structures that now house shops and restaurants (which were of course closed on the day!). By five o clock in the evening I was looking at Alfama from the Porta do sol (Gateway of the sun) as it sloped down to touch the banks of Tagus. Tagus, almost as expansive and alive as the ocean beyond. Alfama from here was a cluster of red roofs and white walls, so closely packed that the streets below are scarcely revealed.

I stepped into the dim lights of the Sè cathedral and saw the tableau of the divine birth set up there. At one of those rare coffee shops that was open, the owner told me of the choir where he was to sing at the night service. It’s a great thing to know a bit of the language. How else could I have made sense of anything the man said, as he talked about the notes of the carols and the charm of the Christmas lights and why he thought I should believe in something at the very least.

But there was more to the night than I had expected…



(cont…)

Little things..

I am in Macao again. This time in better spirits. It is gonna be a shorter stay.Lectures in strange tongues are no longer to be.

Couple of days into my stay we went to a lagar. A lagar is an oil press. Olives from the cultivators around reach here and through a series of semi- mechanised processes oil is extracted in sweetsmelling barrelfulls. Dani explained to me how the system works- how the olives are washed in warm water, crushed, then spread as layers on the round weed mats, stacked and pressed to extract the virgin oil. The workman told us that a good thirty kilograms of olives yield about three litres of oil.

Its the first time since coming to Macao that i am encountering activity of this kind. People red- faced and tired from a hard days work. All we saw were shops and bars and offices and an occasional old lady working in her kitchen garden.Dullness was the rule.

The burly workman at the mill had a warm air about him. He greeted us with firm handshakes rather than the usual kisses. The best was when he warmed bread for us on embers and served it on a metal plate with a generous amount of warm oil poured on it.Dani had already introduced me to the wonders of olive oil poured over food. But nothing had prepared me for the way the flavour and smell of the virgin oil had soaked into the crisp golden brown crust of the home-made bread pieces.

Its good that the place still has surprises in store. Be it a flavour hidden in a lagar or today's evening sky with its shades of magenta and purple.For, I feel the cheer rain out of me with each passing day in Macao. Why so, I wonder! Macao it seems has closed upon itself. Despite their long stay, everyone who has come here is a perpetual outsider. This is inspite of the language, inspite of the colour. Its not as if the people are leading an unhappy life. They have their festivals an their joys.White and blue lights and christmas trees have started to line the streetsides. Its only that they don't need us here to disturb the tranquility-the old and Catholic tranquility.

To a winter in Europe

I felt as I always do, as I waited for my flight at the departure terminal of Delhi airport- that, I have already left. The moment you cross the imigration line, you lose your Delhi.But never so much as this time.In Delhi the winter had set in. Not too harsh, just so much that you want to huddle around in a tight group over cups of tea.Just so much that that cigarette lights are visible above the slight mist.It is the break in Delhi that always make leaving home easy. I had stepped out of the aircraft the evening before into the familiarity of the cool breeze on my face. And i wished that I could stay on.

The Delhi international airport has revamped itself since my last departure. It is posh and grand. The long walks to find your gate, matches any of the other airports that we hear of.I wait at my gate with European faces. I listen to the boarding announcement in the strage 'neutral'ised accent. (Colbe,that s where the trimmed accents go to!). The only sign of the nation outside are the portraits of young men and women in regional attire standing guard at the loo entrances. But then those are portraits for the foreign eyes.

So i sit there and think of things. Why is Delhi that was once so strange now almost home, almost as hard to leave? I wonder if I stayed on long enough,Europe would turn out to be just so.Well, I guess not. It is not that I do not have great friends there. I enjoy the travel. I am eager for more. This winter I am going to meet snow for the first time. In a few hours I would get a glimpse of Zurich as spread out among snowfolds.

But then, there is an odd formality to the life there. A set of rules which cannot be learned easily. Like paying only your tab at the restaurant.Individual space has so much value that I feel suffocated often. Once a couple of years back I was with a group of English students. They were all drinking gin and tonic from bottles they had brought but would not offer.I cried then (and mind you not just for the gin and tonic). Well it is'nt the rule.Already I am aquainted to a number of people to know that much. There is not a single Europe.

I think its worth spending time getting to know Europe.It is possible that each cent is not always to be accounted for.
But after that, I am going to come back..

Neha's Lucknow: Part II

“Go and get lost!” said Tarun Bhaiya and we happily obliged.

I always pictured mazes as set upon the landscape, revealed from a bird’s eye view. Viewed from above all the forking and the choices are laid bare that it makes sense that the lost raise their hopes to the heavens.

Bhool Bhulaiya is a labrynth of a different kind. It is three dimensional and set within the walls of the Bara Imambara. The narrow passages interconnect with each other through 489 identical doorways- doorways barely tall enough for a person of normal stature (though I even had room to spare). It opens out through multiple exits into the balcony of the main hall of the Bara Imambara- the large vaulted chamber, whose proportions are magnified by the absence of supporting beams.Below us the the hall was being painted and polished in anticipation of Muharram.

The complex consists also of the Asfi mosque, and the bowli (a massive water storage feature, with descending steps leading to its heart.

Along with its labrynth the extravagant complex hides within a story of hunger. It is said that Nawab Asaf-Ud-Daula started the project to generate employment during the famine of 1784. Our enthusiastic guide explained how during the daytime, common citizens would construct the building and in the night the nobility, whose employment was in secrecy, would demolish it! And thus the construction stretched over the years, evolving, albeit slowly, into arches and doorways and the mesh of alleys to lose oneself in.

My Harry Potter wisdom told me that moving in a single direction would take me out of the maze. But in the ten minutes that we were allowed to wander away from the watchful eyes of our guide, we managed to take all the wrong turns and stumbled, from time to time, upon dead ends or equally lost and dazed companions. A maze with not even the skies to look up to!

From the terrace of Bara Imambara .we saw Lucknow in all her architectural grace. The city was as I always imagined her to be. From the Azfi mosque the voice of the muezzin poured out into the noon heat. Under our gaze the city buzzed with activity- full of life.

(cont.)

(cont...)

Neha's Lucknow: Part I

(for Anu)

Tousled and shabby, we trouped into the car and made our way through the busy Lucknow noon. We formed the bride’s side at our two friends’ wedding. Different trains had dropped us on the platforms of Lucknow railway station that morning. Finally I was in Neha’s lucknow. A trip in plan since 2004; which, like all our plans, Anu, Neha and me refreshed each time we met. It was the first time me and Amma were travelling together also. (Now those are plans that date back roughly to the time when memory starts). So we all assembled there and waited for Surajit, who arrived soon with a much better groomed groom’s party.

Given the normalcy of the occasion, I might not have noticed where we were, had it not been pointed out. Those were the premises of the Lucknow division bench of Allahabad highcourt. The infamous locale of the most ludicrous judgement in Indian judicial history. The Ayodhya verdict magically transformed myth to reality, gave legal attestation to Gods and built temples out of thin air. It was a wonder they still knew how to issue mundane things as marriage certificates!


It was too brief a stay to know the city. But Neha’s family ensured that we got to know its tastes well. From the famed Makhan malai, made from the morning dew, kachchodi sabji, pakoras, panipuri, chaats, and much more, we moved on to the various flavours of the hooka and meetha paan. We braved the congested streets to reach the succulent tunda kebabs, biriyani and falooda kulfi. The party spilled over from the colourful wedding eve into the next day when the bride and groom were more at ease and in their selves as we know them.



(cont…)

Random

I was on fire
My body
Outside; inside
Starting as timid orange flames
Nurtured by whose desire?
The flames of passion
Leaping out
Again and then again
Now confident, deep red
Caressing and swift.
Fires…destructive, undesirable
Fires… repulsive, formless
Stamped out by a careless feet
A yellow glint
And then the dull gray ash remains

Random

Love,
As I slept among the spring flowers
Last night; I dreamt of our summers
I felt the heat touch my eyelids
And parch my lips ever so slightly.
And anticipated the kiss that would
Wet them back to an easy smile

Archaeological matters

In the year 1984, an Italian rock art research team encountered a rock with prehistoric engravings at Valcamonica. Valcamonica or the Valley of Camuna lies between the provinces of Bregamo and Brescia in Northern Italy. Valcamonica is a major site of prehistoric rock art that spreads over the entire valley.

From the foothills of Capo di Ponte, a twenty minutes drive takes you to the Alpine village of Paspardo, an area with a major concentration of rock art. I spent two weeks here with the Valcamonica Rock art and Archaeology Fieldschool. Paspardo is a delightful little village fringed by tall chestnut woods. The high peaks of Alps mark her horizon in graduating shades of gray. But let us leave Paspardo behind for the moment.

Detour Italia

It is 6:50.
It has been so since the first time I stood on this platform, almost an year ago. Alvega- Ortiga is a broken station; just as its clock is. You cannot even buy tickets here. You can just wait. At the horizon you see the skeleton of what was a factory. Perhaps, it is there just to offer some explanation to the station, the station that is broken.

I remember my first day here. Slightly shivering in the early morning chill, I looked through the mist and wondered when the clock had stopped. Was it at dawn or at dusk? But I ask the question no more. A year in Mação has taken it away. The clock is symptomatic of Mação. A cloister town. And on several occasions I fear that I am trapped not in space alone, but in time too. That sends a shiver through my spine.

The Belgium Story :Part 4 - The Castle of the Counts

Every year around the months of June- July, a strange procession sets out on the streets of Ghent. The citizens of Ghent parade the city barefoot, with black and white nooses around the necks. On the 3rd of May 1540, Ghent was witness to a similar procession. Only that, that day, it was neither a celebration nor a tradition. There was no cheer in the air around.It was a show of public humiliation.

The previous year Ghent had risen in revolt against Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain. The city was by then an international centre of trade and industry and therefore an important source of revenue for Spain. The Flemish felt that the the taxes were used only to fight wars abroad. Determined to bend the stubborn head of the citizenry, the emperor obliged the city's nobles to walk in front of the him barefoot wearing nooses . Ever since, the people of Ghent have been called Stroppendragers (noose bearers).Ironically Charles V was born in Ghent.

The Belgium Story: Part 3

The man who sat next to me at the game offered me his cigarettes and half of the pear he was eating. I was sitting under the incessant drizzle at the historic centre of Ghent, my eyes glued upon the big screen, and hopes still clenched on a Latin American victory.With each German goal, the man would jump up in delight. Then he would turn around to commiserate with me drowning me in a cloud of cigarette smoke. This was a strange world cup! I watched it in five towns, under scorching sun or downpour, sometimes over a chilled beer and sometimes craning my neck over the shoulders and heads on the street-side. But no matter what i did, each team I had my bet on would leave the ground their heads hung low.

I left my dead drunk, cigarette smelling and now happy companion, to resume my walk around Ghent.I have been walking the whole day- a city map open in my hands. I must have been quite a sight!-- turning the map in all directions, bumping into something every ten feet and almost standing on top of map to decide where I am.But, Ghent is worth losing your way in.

The Belgium Story: Part 2

There are some days when I think, I am going to die of an overdosis of satisfaction- Salvador Dali

One night, a couple of years back there was a public meeting in JNU. Stanly chettan informed me that at that point in history Sidharth Varadrajan was wearing a moustache just like that of Salvador Dali. Somehow, that was the first thing I thought of as I glanced at the pompous looking man gazing back at me from the entry ticket to the permanent Dali exhibition housed in the ancient Belfry of Brugge.

Barron Saint Mythelfinger has transformed the medieval hall into a showroom that goes perfectly with the works of art on display. The exhibition includes a vast collection of watercolours, paintings, drawings, series of graphic work and authentic sculptures of Dali with their multiples.

Honestly, I am not the best connoisseur of art.All I can say is that I liked some of the exhibits and some rather less, that I was surprised by his renderings on 'Alice in wonderland' and 'The Old man and the Sea', and that the series on the twelve disciples neither had twelve paintings nor the disciples.

I was in Brugge. Here one cannot step out of the surreal exhibition hall to the real. Brugge is like a book of fairy tales thrown open on the streetside that you accidentally step into. Then you get lost in her alleyways and boat trips. Or, linger like me in front of the neo- gothic front of the post office building, expecting the wary messenger to arrive on his horseback anytime.

The Belgium Story: Part 1

Back in school, I had a book of paintings. One of the pages showed a water colour of a countryside. Two bands made the background- blue for the sky and a lush green for the meadow. Set on the landscape were tiny brown and gray houses with conical roof tops, chimneys and window panes of wood. Around them were a number of trees, close in space yet separated enough for their foliage to achieve a perfect symmetry. Wooden fence poles crisscrossed the landscape.

It was a beautiful picture yet unfamiliar and unreal.The half an hour train ride from Brussels to Ghent saw many replications of the same scene. Once the frame was occupied by a couple of horses. Often white cows with large black spots or dull gray sheep walked across it. My first image of Belgium was of this counrtryside through the train's window. I was too preoccupied catching the right train and then finding a seat to notice the city of Brussels pass by.

"In view of the world cup...."

For the first time, i was all alone in my support at the Brazil - Portuguese match. I watched the game in the parlour of a youth hostel at the heart of Lisbon, surrounded by a bunch of Portuguese supporters. The excitement of me and my companions built and waned in exactly opposite rhythms.A loud lady kept harping about the referee being partial to Brazil as I swore under my breath.

I had come to Lisbon to seek an appointment at the consulate of Brazil. The people waiting outside the consulado formed a yellow and green line of anticipation. Along the street and in the metro people rushed to their work dressed in red or yellow with flags and scarves of the team they supported (I sinned by wearing a purple T shirt. Interstingely, Brazil seemed to have more supporters in the streets of Lisbon. The Lisbon branch of Banco do Brazil had put up a notice at its entrance "In view of the world cup during these days the bank ill not function after 2:30".

Well, the game did not offer much to the supporters. Yellow and red flags hung limp on their shoulders as, in loosely knit groups they went about their way. I am back at the youth hostel living room. A larger croud has gathered to watch the Spain - Chile match. As the Spanish suppoters thump the table shouting "Espanha Espanha" i think how easy it is this time- to join the cheer or choose not to!

On Alcohol, Football, Salazar and the Cross Part II

At first it appeared that the supporters of Braga were taking their team's defeat in good taste. They seemed to be celebrating the runners up position. At traffic lights, cars honked in unison. Bannered and painted faces popped out of their windows waving at passers-by. By and by the disappointment started to bubble out here and there. Small troops of policemen patrolled the streets in vigilance, occasionally a traffic post was set ablaze, there were sudden movements of the people and the police to a street corner. And then, there was the disturbing sight of a dead eagle, floating in the town’s pool- the official mascot of Benefica.

On Football, Alcohol, Salazar and the Cross: Part I

1.
It was one of those nights when each star stands out clear against the cloudless sky. Against its deep midnight blue, the castle of Belver was aglow with lights. The breeze was just enough to give your hair a careless tousle. And the tingle of one of the best cocktails I ever had lingered in my mouth.

It was a shot of casshassa (my best comparison would be with tequila) mixed with strong chilly. The tavern man was in a friar’s attire and called it ‘water on fire’. We had our tiny ceramic shot glasses corded around our necks. As Andre and I put the concoction in our mouths, the priest placed his hands over our heads in blessing and rendered a solemn sermon. And finally, when I gulped, my soul was on fire.

Random

I.

Me…
Fat girl…
Sweaty and oily- faced
I pant on walking
The world is an eye that crawls over my fleshy bosom
As I sit there under the sky;
Too scared to lie down
For fear of exposure

I dream of foot ball boots
Of air whizzing past my ears
As I run; with the ease of a gazelle
The muscles rippling in my thigh…
In my bicycle kicks I defy gravity…
I aim at the horizon and pay no penalty…

(July 2006)


II.

There aint nothing in these streets anymore
No wild fire flames
No shattered glass panes
For never once these wretched church bells
Ring out the time wrong
With a single hand movement
They shut out all voices
Bless them, but I want back
My city of noises

(June 2010)

A drunken driver, a hung dream and a river with two names

For Daniela)
One evening, about a month ago, a middle age man takes his car out of his driveway, a few blocks from where we live in Mação. He is supposed to go down the road. But instead turns wildly to his left and slams into a little green car parked on the roadside. The man says his children were apparently playing with a turtle in the back seat and he lost concentration trying to see what they were up to!! His incredible narrative unrolled with a strong smell of alcohol.

Well, the insurance company says they cannot repair our car. A second hand car is not worth the effort. They will give us compensation rather. For us it was a means to escape time and again form the monotony of Mação, a cheaper travel option in a country where public transport and hostels costs too much; most of all the centre of a hundred fantastic, half formed plans for Dani and me that rode across the country side, crossed the national boundaries and what not. How they plan to compensate all that, I know not!

Tras os Montes I

São Salvador do Mundo

With my left hand, I tied a knot on the pine- like leaves of the little plant and the future became a certainty. In one year’s time from that evening I am to be married. My genial classmate has already made the offer in exchange of an elephant as a wedding gift. São Salvador do Mundo is not about the little plant and a wedding in offer. It is about a belief that dates back to more than ten centuries.

With AD 1000 fast approaching, the dooms day was in prediction. In the mass hysteria that spread around Europe, São Salvador do Mundo (literally saviour saint of the world) was northern Portugal’s little locale of salvation. The short steep climb carries one through a circuit of beliefs and folklore. The little plant has already shrivelled up with the weight of a hundred weddings on her head. Two simple white chapels perch on top of gray rocky outcrops. Then there is the stone where the devil caught his foot and fell down on his knees; got up and fell down again this time his horns hitting hard on the rock’s surface; cup marks marking each stage of his fall on the Fraga do Diabo (Rock of the Devil?). A strong, chilly wind caught our faces as we climbed up to the highest point on the cliff, to the second chapel of hope.


Hope, I think, must look, somewhat like Douro that flows beneath, nestled amongst the steep cliffs of Tras- os- Montes. River Douro (of gold), that captures the golden rays of the sun and shines out brilliant from rugged depths of the mountain...

The Wine Country

São Salvador do Mundo was our last and the lightest part of four days, titled Geomorphology and Geodiversity, through the North of Portugal. The landscape is predominated by schist in the lower reaches and more resistant granite and quartzite in the upper reaches. Schist is a soft gray stone that breaks with ease in neat layers. The slate we write on for instance is metamorphosed schist. The region is also the heart of the wine country in Portugal- home to the famous Vinho- do – Porto. If wine does not flow in the rivers, it definitely flows through the stone tanks and pipes of the wine factory of Freixo de Espada. For once, outside the dream also, as I turn a tap it is wine that flows out rather than water. The schist absorbs sunlight in summer and radiates it out in winter- conditions ideal for wine cultivation. The grape wine creeps up over narrow elongated schist blocks rather than on wooden support. It is a geology set out for wine.

I am writing this with a glass of wine on my tabletop- wine from a dusty green bottle that stayed for years on the cupboard of a house in Vilarinha de Tanho. During the last few days of our stay in this little village, many such bottles have found their way to the house where we stay. Vilarinha de Tanho is close to Vila Real where we have courses for a month. The place is in stark contrast with Mação. Mação is an impersonal city, flaunting its affluence, in the pretence of a village. Vilarinha de Tanho smiles and greets you with a spontaneity that is informal. Spontaneity of the several bottles of free wine and home-baked bread on our table, of the middle aged women who show us around the many little chapels (dedicated to our Lady of Affliction and Health and what not) and the repeated handshakes of the ever smiling man, always there on the same street, for whom the world is a reality different from that of the others.


But much was there before that....

Nazaré

The story is of a foggy morning, eight hundred years back in time. Knight Dom Fuas Rouphino, was pursuing a stag. All of a sudden, his game disappeared at the edge of a cliff. Rouphino who was close behind, heard in alarm the waves lapping below. Only a miracle could save. And it was a miracle that did happen.

At the very edge of the cliff his horse came to a sudden halt. Convinced that the Virgin of Nazaré had come to his aid Rouphino raised a chapel on the site. But, I do not think that any divine intervention was necessary. The spontaneous beauty, of the sight that spread below would root anyone to the spot.

O Album Nazaré

The Tale of an Axe

This was told by Chris Buco in her lecture on Rock Art in Latin America...

Prehistoric stone axes acted just like modern axes. They chopped. What remains of the axe now is the stone head, carefully flaked out of the core and polished by skilled hands. When they find their way to us, archaeologists, we draw them, measure them, try to identify how, in their making, each strike fell.

The Krahô as a group of people presently lives in the North- East of Brazil, in and around the state of Tocantins. The numbers and occupation patterns, mediated over time by violent conflicts and colonization. Time and again in the region, one comes across pre-historic stone axes. For the Krahô, these lunar (stone axes) have immense symbolic significance, significance different from their original ‘chop chop’ function. They are painted and held in ceremonial gatherings and preciously guarded over generations.

Laughter

On the whole, in our classroom laughter is a very calculated thing- a response to an academic joke, a note of sarcasm, genuine surprise on why the Palaeolithic deer looks like a fish! And usually the laughter flies over my head, due to my ignorance of the language. To be fair there is a bit of uncalculated laughter too that flies over my head.

One Saturday afternoon, during one of the ten minutes breaks in the daylong lecture, the class gathered around the little pond outside the museum. Sleet of ice had covered the pond. The last few autumn leaves lay still just beneath the surface. I don’t remember who started it.

Carnaval en Badajos Part-2

Carnival in Badajos

Nations are only a train ride apart, that too, a four hour one! Badajos is on the Lisbon – Madrid railway close to the Portuguese border. From Mação we make a rough diagonal to the South East, cutting across first the river Tagus and then the Guadiana. The Guadiana presently divides Badajos into two.

Carnival in Badajos was Lolo and Boris’s suggestion. Lolo is a student of journalism in the University of Extremadura in Badajos. As for me, I could be anywhere but in Mação. I had absolutely no idea of what it was to be in a carnival. Thankfully Dani alerted me to the simple rules like “if you don’t wear a costume to the carnival, you are asking for trouble”.

Heritage...

My friend Ivo says that the Portuguese today have nothing to keep them together. No political movement or cultural expression that helps them identify themselves as a people. Hence, they desperately cling on to every scrap from their past.

Ivo was trying to problematize the naturalized assumptions on conservation of archaeological sites. He questioned the undue stress on preservation at the expense of means of livelihood. According to him, when it comes to a balance of interests the ‘heritage managers’ of Portugal clearly have their priorities wrong.