Portugal road trip: Cork oaks and a “raspberry visa”
Still in the Algarve: departure and farewell – See you again
To reach the town of Silves and see the storks, I first have to leave Odeceixe, where I’ve spent the last three weeks. Luckily, it’s not a goodbye forever.
I haven’t written nearly enough about this lovely little village, which is not only within walking distance of the Atlantic coast but also has a river that, protected by the dunes, turns into a river swimming spot before it flows into the ocean. It’s a perfect spot for safe swimming, splashing around, and building sandcastles.
The village of Odeceixe takes its name from this body of water, the Ribeira de Seixe, or the Seixe River: “Ode” = “by, at” + Seixe (where the “s” becomes a “c”), meaning “by the Seixe.” Pronounced phonetically as roughly “Odesaysh” with a voiced “sch.” Portuguese is wonderfully melodic, but difficult for non-native speakers to pronounce.
I am very fortunate to be able to spend three weeks living in a little paradise high above a valley. In the garden, not only are jasmine, calla lilies, and trumpet flowers blooming, along with all sorts of native plants, but the first strawberries are also turning red. A lesser-known delicacy grows right beneath the wooden veranda that overlooks the lower levels of the garden. This delicacy hangs from three trees of the species “Japanese medlar,” known here in Portugal as “Nespereira-do-Japão.” The orange, sweet-tasting fruits, which resemble oval apricots and shine in clusters among the glossy, dark-green leaves that remain evergreen throughout the year, are called nêsperas or loquats. They are made into jelly and jam, liqueur, and wine. The flesh contains two or three small dark brown seeds. Every morning I pick a small bowlful of fresh nêsperas from the tree for my muesli sit down on the terrace, and enjoy the view across the valley—with its hills, scattered houses, and pine trees—while I eat. Anyone who has ever been to East Africa will, like me, immediately think upon seeing this: “Ah, just like in Africa!”
Would I also chill out in a hammock in East Africa?
In any case, the African continent is rather close. At least the Arab part of North Africa is. From Odeceixe, it’s only an hour’s drive to Sagres on the southern tip of Portugal. Beyond that lies a stretch of the Atlantic Ocean—then Morocco. No wonder the Algarve, which stretches along Portugal’s southern coast, was formerly called “Algarbia.” I’ve heard that these days, Portuguese people in the north of the country refer to everything south of Lisbon as “Africa.”
The Algarve actually shares a lot of vegetation in common with the countries of North Africa: the cork oak, for example. I learn that the tree’s thick bark can be stripped every eight years. To keep track of when the next stripping will take place, a number is painted on the trunks. A “3,” for instance, for the year 2023. For all the trees that had this number painted on their trunks, this meant a cruel end. For no sooner had they been stripped of their bark than a forest fire raced through the hills. Without their bark, the trees were defenseless against the flames. Some of these oaks are now sprouting new shoots, but most stand as charred reminders of nature amidst the landscape that bursts into blossoms in spring. A sea of white flowers catches my eye: rockroses. The dried leaves of this medicinal plant, native to the Mediterranean region, are traditionally used as tea or applied topically for colds, flu, bronchitis, and skin problems such as eczema. The resin they contain makes the fresh leaves sticky.
Although North Africa is so close to the Algarve, very few of the “guest workers” in this region come from there. Most migrants are from India, Nepal, and Pakistan. The mechanic repairing the brakes on my Volkswagen Fox clearly identifies himself as a Sikh by his turban. Many of these guest workers are employed in the restaurant industry and agriculture. They pick strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries under the plastic roofs of the sprawling greenhouses. That is why the work visa they need for this job is colloquially called the “raspberry visa.” The workers must remain in Portugal for five years to qualify for a residence permit within the European Union.
As a pale-faced German, I’m getting to know the more affluent side of the Algarve, which attracts more and more expats from northern Europe every year. Buying property here as a foreigner involves less red tape than in neighboring Spain. And: Many Portuguese speak English. This stands in stark contrast to Spain, where without the local language you’re pretty much lost even in cities like Barcelona. The Portuguese were once world conquerors, like the Spanish, but nowadays only Spanish is a global language. Spaniards therefore do not necessarily have to learn a foreign language to communicate with the world—just like Americans, Brits, and Australians. Portuguese, on the other hand, is still spoken in populous Brazil, but anyone who wants to interact with the rest of the world better learns English.
This fact makes my life in this foreign country, which I’m visiting for the first time, a lot easier. Is this the reason why I feel more at home here than I did during my two-month stay in Spain? I’ll have spent the same amount of time in Portugal when I fly back to Berlin at the end of May… I’ll be leaving my “red flash” on four wheels behind in Odeceixe, because luckily I’m only leaving for a short time—to return in August for another two months. That prospect makes saying goodbye much easier now. Goodbye: especially to Rocky Balboa—the little orange tabby cat.
Rocky used to lead a “wild” life until he chose Karen and Jürgen—the owners of this little gem with its terrace, hammock, and mirabelle plums—as his adopted family. The little tomcat is still shy, but after a few days he lets me scratch him behind the ears. Every now and then he also comes into the living room, where I’ve put my laptop on the dining table, and dozes off on the sofa while I type. Or he lies down under the table out on the terrace when I’m eating there or working on my laptop.
Just as I’d stowed my suitcase and all my belongings in the car and was about to drive off, curiosity got the better of Rocky, and he decided to inspect the inside of the car. As a former stray, he was probably drawn by the smell coming from the trash bag I’d set down in front of the passenger seat, intending to toss it into the nearest community trash bin by the roadside. At first, Rocky just peeks curiously into the car and sniffs around, then—whoosh—he jumps right in. Just as quickly, though, he’s back out again. So much for the dream of possibly hitting the road with a cat.
See you in August, little Rocky!
This story was first published on my German website and translated by me.