Fêsta time
Announcing the beginning of the village Fêsta, fireworks are set off throughout the day, their vibrant colours and beautiful, symmetric patterns lost in the bright blue sky and glaring sun. Each village has its own agenda –and oft times more than one Fêsta will be held in that village – be it celebrating the Virgin Mary, the local wine or the beginning of the summer vacation. Any darn good excuse for celebrating life with fireworks, wine, beer, tombola, candy-floss, all meats “no espeto” (on the spit) and a good band to get the dancing going!!
It is not just a village fair, it is a family affair. No-one is excluded. Infants in arms or sound asleep in prams, with pacifiers of every description; tiny-tots in party wear, dazed with sleep, slumber on the laps of black clad widowed grandmothers; gangly teenage girls with fuzzy hair and cheap gaudy fashion, teetering on dangerously high heels, sport the look of indifference towards their male, spotty faced, denim clad counterparts. Exhausted young mothers discarding the “housecoat”, and weathered husbands kicking off their gum boots, make the most of the event to scrub up proper, don new jeans and comfy shoes, and secure seats at a refectory table for all the family to partake of the simple supper of “frango de cabidela” (chicken with rice and chicken blood) or “chispalhada” (bean and vegetable stew with pig’s trotters, pig’s ear and cured sausage) and a jug or two of the local “vinho tinto”. The women, unable to leave the matriarch duties at home, encourage the children to eat, as they top up their spouses’ plates, though, I note, they themselves are no strangers to the buffet bar!!The clatter of cutlery on crockery, excited children playing chase, and chatter of local gossip vibrates throughout the dining area, getting progressively louder as the wine jugs are replenished. Outside the beer stalls are doing well, flat-capped men linger close at hand, always one of them in the queue at the “pré-pagamente “(pre-pay) ready with the order for the next round!
The Portuguese love to dance. At 11pm, on the dot, the band strikes the first chord and the dance floor fills with couples intend on displaying a variety of complex footwork and bottom wiggling! Step back into the 1970’s when dancing without a partner was considered a little “loose”. Here, rather than dance alone, anybody and everybody dances with anybody and everybody. Girls and girls, Dads and babies, lads and tiny-tots; if you have a partner the floor’s all yours!! The dance favoured by most here is, I suppose, similar to the “quick step” 1-2-3-4-kick out the heels-5-6-7-8-wiggle the hips. Well, actually, the bottom wiggles insistently!! There is much turning and little heel kicks by both men and women. I am sure they must learn this from cradle up because they all seem to do it with such nonchalant ease!! At one dance I was tutored by a rather handsome, thankfully tall, sultry, green-eyed buck of barely 40 years, the art of jiggling the bottom every third beat in the bar. I soon lost all concentration when his arm at my back brought me closer to his muscular torso and his right leg was virtually inviting me to ride al-fresco!!
I digress………..
By half-past midnight the parents disappear with the little ones leaving the remaining partygoers to up the beat. Hot sweaty bodies, gradually dispensing with outer layers of clothes, grind even closer, yet still carry that vibrant kicking-heel-twirling-wiggling-bottom theme in their dance. With Dutch courage the lads are more confident now and seek out the single women. I was thus invited to dance by an energetic, swarthy, wiry chap, whose sweaty bald head came level with my chin, and who whisked me off into the mire of other vertically challenged and equally sweaty bodies only to pin his right knee in between my thighs and rotate his hips in such a manner that we simply went round and round in circles on the spot, becoming the centre-reservation buffer for all other twirling, swirling couples. Towering above the majority of hip-jiggers, and therefore prone to more attention, I gave up the fight, and just rested my chin upon said sweaty bald head under which was sported an ear-to-ear grin, and prayed for the end of the very long jig!
Where was that sultry Adonis!
Head numb and echoing the vibrations of the loud music, clammy body cleansed, I slipped between my sheets in my quiet, still bedroom, and with a soft breeze blowing through the French windows fell into a long awaited sleep only to be awoken at early dawn by the cracking of gunfire as the Sunday morning rabbit hunt announced the beginning of Autumn.