Fala Portuguese?

On a sunny April morning, dressed in bikini top and shorts, the terrace gates opened wide I set about painting the dirty brown gates a shiny black. Eight year old Carlos playing with his tractoro along the narrow lane kept me entertained as he endeavoured to converse in English and I in Portuguese. Laughing at our efforts we were quite relaxed sharing his favourite chocolate biscuits and a jug of fresh grape juice, there was no real need to converse.“Tractoro! Tractoro!” he cried in excitement at the prospect of the oncoming tractor which trundled up the lane that ran parallel to mine. As it came closer I heard the engine slack, the brakes squeal and the engine stall. It rolled back until the driver could see my gate, and me. Dressed in tatty blue overalls, his dark hair flopping over smiling eyes and a grin from ear to ear, the farmer took a few seconds to appreciate what was before him before starting up the engine and trundling towards his mother’s dilapidated home.

The next morning skipping down the same track en route back from the post office I came across the same young man walking away from my house, carrying a white plastic bag. Seeing me his face lit up and he quickened his step. Proffering the bag he stuttered words I could not understand, but I understood his gesture, inside the bag were two freshly picked lettuce intended as an offering to make my acquaintance. I did not know how to explain that I was off to work the next day and I would not be around for at least a week and therefore could not accept his présent. I did not want to encourage his advances either. Somehow he understood and with a forlorn face retraced his steps to his farm. As it happened I did not go to work the next day, and so I went to the early morning market to buy some fresh provisions for my evening meal. I came upon an elderly lady stooped over her tiny stall and, recognizing her from our village, selected my salad from her batch. As soon as she saw who was buying her produce she leapt up and began ranting and gesticulating in rage, her tiny arms flying about, the lettuce thrown to the ground. Other stall holders were laughing as I stood rooted with embarrassment not understanding what I had done to upset her so. Finally a translator came to my rescue telling me that I had declined her gift of fresh lettuce just the day before, and I come now to insult her by offering to pay for the gift she had sent with her son Jorge!!