Camp Sh*t
I have a knack of ending up in the most unlikely places when travelling—mine is the only small tent on what is the crappiest campsite I have ever stayed on. There is no sign of any other travellers, just caravaners who seem to have laid down roots here. Our nearest neighbours are not quaint little villages but cement factories (two of them). The view of the estuary is blocked by densely jammed caravans.
After I scratched away the stones with a brush improvised from a bundle of twigs, I was left with a patch of ground marginally softer than concrete where I could pitch my tent next to the busy road that runs past the campsite. It didn’t make for a good nights sleep.
The next morning I had to stay in the wind-battered tent until 10 am just to warm up. It has been a few years since I have camped outside the tropics and I can feel my age as the chill entered my creaking bones. This problem has now been solved by stuffing everything I don’t wear or use as a pillow into the foot end of the sleeping bag, but damn that ground is hard.
After getting up it was a long trudge to the other end of the site where I finally found a forlorn picnic table situated in deep shade next to the site’s maintenance paraphenalia. It was clearly intended for the workers—not campers. The constant busy-ness around here is also not exactly relaxing. First thing in the morning, someone swept the path right outside the tent, a car engine was idling within breathing distance and now a crew of gardeners are working on the hedge by the table and two blokes are washing a bloody car right behind me. It is putting me off my food.
I considered moving on but I doubt that any other campsite will be much better. The constant wind is getting to me. God, I miss the tropics!
To top it all, I forgot to bring toilet paper. It is a Sunday and all the shops will be closed. I had to traipse to the snack bar for tissues where I am already known as the Scrounger. As I flush the loo, I blush at the realisation that I have flushed down the tissue instead of putting it in the little bin at the side. Suddenly I realise what all this reminds me of: the constant wind, the need to carry around your own loopaper and the fact that you are not supposed to flush it—this is just like Taiwan (minus the camping)! Even the suckling pig brings back memories (I didn’t like it cold, but it would be delicious fresh from the spit)
Immediately after I leave the cubicle, a woman darts in and flushes emphatically and repeatedly. I quicly disappear from sight.
Tags: Portugal, Tag Index
Denni