cultural differences: a brief guide

Some things that travellers are meant to encounter have always eluded me. “Cultural differences” and “culture shock”, for example, are two concepts that I have never really had a grasp of while on the road.

But now that I am settled and my mind is no longer occupied with train timetables and food poisoning, I have had time to ponder these issues.

I know that many of the comparisons I make on a daily basis are city/country comparisons, rather than being particularly Portuguese/Australian. The problem is with the generalisation. So, permit me instead to illustrate some examples of the more unexpected, curious and/or seriously annoying old life/new life differences I have encountered.

Do not take medications with alcohol

Elsewhere we understand that alcohol interferes with some prescription drugs, and can also exacerbate any side-effects like drowsiness that may occur. But here in my village, this code of practice is taken literally; I.E. you should not use a liquid containing alcohol to swallow your pills.

To counter this village logic, I have drawn up my own personal guidelines:

All illegal drugs should to be consumed with alcohol, although ecstasy should only be drunk with a trendy spring water.

All pain medication should be taken with an espresso to bring it on super fast.

Any sedative should be taken with a glass of milk, preferably malted.

 Bex powders are of course taken with a cup of tea, followed by a lie-down.

Antidepressants, if taken in the morning, should be drunk with a neat scotch, or if in the evening with a swig of vodka straight from the bottle, for that desperate housewives type of style.

Any heart, circulation, or blood pressure treatments should be quaffed with a glass of red wine.

Antibiotics, logically, with a liquid yoghurt.

Ritalin, lithium, dopamine and anything containing pseudoephedrine should be drunk with a large glass of unnaturally-intense coloured cordial or soft drink.

Anti-inflammatories, which should never be taken on an empty stomach, should be taken with a smoothie made from chops, potatoes and peas, or whatever you’re eating put into the blender. Mmm. spag bol smoothie, now we’re talking…

In this same “village logic/cultural difference” category one may also include “don’t drink hot things with cold things” (thankyou waitress now get me my coffee and orange juice) and “you can’t toast bread with fruit in it” (thankyou waitress now go toast my merendeira quicksmart thanks).

Being fat and being skinny

Despite the alarming growth of my girth and the persistence of a vulgar muffin top, my neighbours are insisting that I am puny and weak and need fattening up. It’s sweet of them to ignore the disintegration of my used-to-be physique, but really, I’m already rolling down Heartattack Road, and I don’t need a push.

You see, here, if you’re not as big as a house then people take pity on you. They describe fat people as “strong” people. What’s interesting is that their attitude is just as scientifically flawed as our perception of thinness being attractive. We might be starving ourselves to ill health, but they are meanwhile eating their way to heart disease and diabetes…

Pets

There isn’t even a proper word for “pet” in Portuguese. The best they can do is ‘animal of esteem’ which echoes nicely the dubious attitudes Portuguese have for companion animals. I should say, some, perhaps even many Portuguese do get it – just no one here in my village. Just how many times do the neighbours have to say that I have to keep my dog chained up EVERY HOUR OF EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF ITS MISERABLE LIFE. Just how many “pet” dogs will the neighbours dump in the forest five minutes after their fun use-by date? How many domestic cats do we need who are hungry, diseased and petrified of human contact? What the hell is the point in having them around? I mean, if they were eating them, it might just make sense…

However, it seems their respect for animal rights is diverted to other species. The goats, sheep and one rooster are permitted to walk the streets like the holy cows of India. Which is all nice and utopian except for the backing soundtrack of the howling dogs, imprisoned for life.

At the café, it’s just incredible how many people are terrified of dogs. And Wookie is not exactly scary. Maybe I should take Mao out when he’s in a bad mood, and then we’ll see.

Stuff beside the road

Where I come from, if you make a pile of things outside your house, in any way adjacent to the roadside, you are sending a message that this is stuff you no longer want and that the general public is most welcome to come along and take it away.

This is not the case in here in Cú de Judas. A pile of anything anywhere still belongs to someone and will be doggedly protected should you attempt to reclaim it. I have stumbled over this cultural mogul when I was sprung liberating junk from a junk pile, which was unfortunately considered by the other party to be valuable personal property. “If so”, I queried, “why was it not secured?” Why was it not inside out of the rain, for example, or even behind a fence, or why didn’t it have a little handwritten sign saying “my shit – don’t take”? It’s charming, in a way, that Portugal (or Cú de Judas, anyway) is still so innocent that unprotected belongings left for days, weeks or months in full view of passing traffic in an open field, should not be mistaken for abandoned or be considered vulnerable to repossession.

Indeed, even in areas without houses to indicate private property, you should be careful about what you lift from the footpath. I have been told that collecting kindling by the roadside puts me in a suspect moral position. Certainly I now understand that seemingly ancient stacks of tidied branches may be someone far away’s sensitively aging wood pile. Even random arrangements of tree waste might be precious treasure to someone somewhere, and not just nature providing for the freelance hunter-gatherers’ benefit.

So now when I’m feeling nervous and guilty while gathering pine cones, (I don’t actually stop doing it) I just reassure myself with the wise words of a neighbour: stealing to eat isn’t stealing. I presume this includes stealing to cook, to eat, isn’t stealing.

10 signs that your life is good

1. you don’t have to be at the office at 9.
(To be honest I think ‘you don’t have to be at the office at all, ever’ but some people do like work. sick. freaks.)

2. you can eat out of your own garden

3. you siesta

4. you have a hammock and you use it

5. your pancakes come out with smilies on them

6. you spend very little money and create very little garbage

7. you drink champagne on wednesdays

8. you make stuff, with your hands, just for fun, just ‘cos you can

9. the chickens roam free on the streets (wookie suggested this one)

10. there are no queues, no traffic jams, and no parking tickets

So, what are your signs?

houseminding in the ribatejo

Those that know me well will be sick with dread after reading that. Houseminding. Horror. I have a history with houseminding. A dark, violent history. A history filled with shame, blame, guilt and tears.

Something happens to me when I am left alone in possession of property. I become possessed by the devil; a domestic bitch who leaves dirty footprints and a trail of broken appliances in her wake. I don’t mind the house, so much as contaminate it.

Fortunately my current hosts and friends, Derek and Inés, are in far off Australia where where the internet cannot reach, or so they tell me. They will not worry because they will not know, unless of course they call, as they have done, but then I will do as I never ever do normally. I will lie. And later I will plead temporary insanity.

barragem do castelo do bode

I suppose I could blame my parents for leaving me alone to “mind the house” when I was 15 and somewhat irresponsible. I took being left alone as an open invitation to drive the family wagon to school, or to not go school, to invite friends over for parties, and/or stay out all night for several nights in a row. As a result of the last activity I lost my father’s beloved siamese cat in the first 48 hours of their inaugural post-retirement 6 week European adventure. Thus, I spent the next 6 weeks having to lie, and tell them she was ‘justfine’ every time they rang, or else ruin their holiday. I also crashed the family car, but it was just the first time of many for that and it’s really the cat running away that scarred me psychologically.

ribatejo light

I’ve now come to regard losing the pet cat as de rigeur for any houseminding episode. And it’s not all about me. Running away is the well-bred cat’s logical reaction to being abandoned by its owner. Perfectly natural. My sister’s cat always runs away whenever she goes on holidays. Actually all she does is hide inside the house (for several days), until she is satisfied with the level of response and the subsequent angst of both the houseminder and her owner (if the houseminder is stupid enough to have told her about it. I never do. Very unprofessional.).

Also par for the course is the breaking of appliances. My record was set at a dear friend’s place when in one two-week period I broke the dishwasher and coffee machine, melted the juice extracter and the food processor exploded, causing minor injuries. I took photos of the wounds I sustained and the shrapnel from the machine which was splattered in every corner of the kitchen and used the photos to emotionally blackmail the owner. Once I had their sympathy, I then told them about the other appliances. That is professional modus operandus.

scandanavian style cabins at aldeia do mato

My real strengths lie in destroying large-scale travelling souvenirs or family heirlooms. That Morrocan rug you bought on your honeymoon? Well, it’s a long story. I’m not sure what the bottle of turps was doing in the lounge room anyway, or why I thought an entire box of laundry detergent should be employed in the clean-up. As for the lampshade that was the single memento from your childhood summers at granny’s… Sorry about that. That’s as bad as it gets, isn’t it? It’s perfectly understandable if I’m never allowed in the house ever again. And that the 20 year friendship would be finished does seem justified.

a holiday favourite; chocolate pikelets

So, how’s my form this time around? On the first day here I tripped the power (no biggie in general, but in a new house the culprit can be a bit mysterious) requiring discussions with neighbours, and then unplugging everything… etc etc. The washing machine and kettle weren’t a problem on their own, but when you add the pie warmer and the bubble-bath frother… blah blah blah… The fun really started when I was preparing lunch. I’d just added the oil to the pan when the doorbell rang. Neighbour with stray cat: in a turn-up for the books, instead of losing a cat I was adopting one. But Wookie had other ideas about the new kitten and in the ruckus I shut the front door – locking myself out. With a hot pan of oil on the stove. Located another neighbour who showed us the way in, and I only had to break down one interior door to stop the kitchen fire from spreading throughout the house. No worries. Only one ruined pan. (Probably belonging Great-Auntie Amalia, may she rest in peace).

sweet little recent arrival

What really got my heart going was the oven exploding when I tried to light it, and the force of the blast throwing me across the kitchen floor in a cloud of fluffy insulation.

Things have calmed down somewhat since then, with only three trips to the vet and a great deal of vomit, piss, blood, shit and frothing-at-the-mouth mopping up, (but none of my own so far). I’ve got locking-myself-out down to a manageable once-daily routine.

wookie's new best friend

This morning’s pre-breakfast rampage could just be called ‘exercise’. Wookie took a liking to next-door’s sheep and chased them around the paddock for half an hour. One unruly little one thought it would be funny to shove its head through the fence and get stuck, so I had to carry it home didn’t I? And now there’s the fence mending to do this afternoon. Luckily it’s the first time and the neighbours still think it’s funny. That won’t last.

I have a sneaking suspicion that my reputation preceded me because Derek and Inés seem very well prepared. I’m sure I saw a rice-cooker and an electric wok here on previous visits, and now they are nowhere to be found. I’ve tried to use the dishwasher. But it was already like that, surely. I can’t break it just by looking at it, can I? So there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about, yet.

Ahhh… so much for a quiet life in the country…