Time Flies.

I have previously and elsewhere in this blog referred to Santa Luzia as “the thief of time” and now, having lived here for over a month I can absolutely confirm that description.                                   

  Time here is generally irrelevant and the day just bobs along at its own pace until, suddenly, you find there is precious little of it left and all the grand plans you made to “get on” lie in sun bleached tatters in the shadow of the empty wine bottle you only intended to have one glass from .

There are however the odd days of exceptional effort and achievement that prove the exception to the rule. Tuesday last was one of them.

Some years ago we were introduced to a very useful contact by our friend and neighbour Andre.

Originally from Romania Ovidiu now resides further down our street, Rua Joao Antonio Chagas ferrier, in a large old Portuguese house with his partner Georgia and father Joane.

 Ovi can turn his hand to just about any trade you can bring to mind but his real calling and passion is motor mechanics.

Thus it was, in need of some reasonably priced transport, I called in passing one Friday on Ovidiu and asked him to keep his eyes peeled for a decent car for me at “poor man’s prices”.

Sure enough the following day whilst chatting with Andre outside Ria Café  I was informed “Ovidiu has a car for you”.

 Arrangements were immediately made and Sunday lunchtime saw us in Tavira trying to look like we knew what we were doing while we inspected our prospective new vehicle.

The little blue Fiat Palio Weekend showed the inevitable signs of its fifteen years of existence here on the Algarve. A bump in the bonnet, a scrape down the offside and the usual sun damage to the paintwork testified to its life and experience but a test drive proved satisfactory and a price of €1500 was eventually agreed and shook upon.

A price was quickly agreed.

Explaining to the seller, Nico, the need to draw the cash piecemeal on our various UK debit and credit cards we arranged to return Tuesday morning and complete the transaction.

This impending acquisition forced me to address an issue that I have been pushing onto the back burner for the last seven years. In Portugal it is virtually impossible to make any substantial purchase without a NIF (Numero Identifacacao Fiscal) and it is absolutely impossible to deal with any bureaucrat without this nine digit number. A visit to the offices of the Financas would be required prior to the purchase.

The next thirty six hours was an interminable round of visits to the Multibanco (cashpoint) withdrawing the €1500 purchase price in €150 or €200 lumps depending on the daily cash limits of our various cards.

By 10.00am Tuesday the bounty had been gathered and Ovidiu and I set off to obtain the required number and complete the purchase. Unfortunately April is the month for the issue and payment of the Imposto Municipal Sobre Imoveis (council tax) and consequently when we arrived at Financas it was thronged with people waiting to pay their bills. On enquiring at the information desk we were informed we needed to take a ticket for queue F-pagmentos (payments).

Removing our ticket from the machine we discovered we were allocated F69 and a check of the screen revealed that the counter was currently dealing with F31. With 38 people in the queue before us we reckoned on at least an hour wait. We settled down in a sunny spot on the outside steps and began to chat animatedly on any subject that crossed our minds.

Now Ovidiu is a native Romanian speaker but has very good Portuguese and understands considerably more English than he can speak. I of course speak English and a little Portuguese, however I understand substantially more of the latter than I can speak. Our conversation therefore quickly slipped into Ovi addressing me in Portuguese and me replying in English with every now and then the roles reversing as one or the other of us got more adventurous. This was a source of great entertainment and amusement to the horde of hopeful payees also sunning themselves on the steps.

Things were cracking along nicely till about 11 o’clock when the screen seemed to stall at F71 and stay there for a good twenty minutes. It seems the Portuguese have not yet discovered the staggered tea break. During this hiatus we bumped into Vincent, the French owner of Restaurant Vincent in Santa Luzia, who had the misfortune to be in possession of ticket F121.

After morning coffee the screen once again began to flash and bleep on a more regular basis and  finally around about 12-10 F69 flashed up and we commenced our “counter attack”. By 12-30 we emerged, €10.20 poorer, but triumphantly clutching the prized number. I have though to admit that had it not been for Ovidiu the quest would probably have floundered at the first (and inevitable) “Ha problema”.

In the light of this delay we now had less than three and a half hours in which to make the purchase, transfer the documents and acquire insurance.

 The transfer of documents needed to be completed at the Loja do Ciadadao (literally- Citizen shop) and the insurance was to be purchased at the bank in Santa Luzia.

We sped off to our appointment and having paid the purchase price, completed the official transfer document, exchanged NIFs and obtained a Photostat copy of the sellers ID card we were at last in a position to attempt the transfer of ownership at the Loja do Ciadadao, however the bank closed one hour earlier so it seemed sensible to obtain the insurance first. Not in Portugal.

The bank teller patiently and kindly informed us that without the temporary transfer document from the Loja do Ciadadao it was not possible to insure the vehicle.

We screamed off to the Gran plaza shopping centre in Tavira, where said Loja do Ciadadao is situated, and were mightily relieved on arrival to find that all it’s prospective customers were probably still sunning themselves on the steps of Financas holding tickets for F queue while the staff enjoyed their dinner break.

We were dealt with promptly and efficiently and despite several “Ha problemas”s  we emerged once again with the required documentation but this time some €65 lighter.

A mad dash back to the bank in Santa Luzia ensued and despite an interminable round of computer consultations and telephone calls by the time the bank closed at 3.00pm I was fully insured.

Obtaining a NIF, purchasing a car, transferring ownership and insuring said car all in the space of five hours is quite an achievement in Portugal and as I sat in Ria Café and sipped on my cerveja preta I was more than a little pleased with myself.

I was however totally exhausted and in the ensuing week I have had to indulge in much rest and relaxation……………………….c’est la vie!!

Jose to the rescue.

Whilst Joan and I have now been in Santa Luzia for over a fortnight we still haven’t really settled properly into village life due, in no small part, to the number of holidaying friends here during the Easter period.

It was the imminent arrival last week of two of these friends, Barney and Darren, from Leeds that sparked an amusing little incident I would like to relate to you.

As the two were staying as guests in our spare room Joan determined that the whole house and its environs should be thoroughly cleaned.  (After all everyone knows how fussy a bricklayer can be should he discover fluff balls under his bed.)

Having swept, cleaned, dusted and polished the internal rooms Tuesday was declared as the day to “sort out” the external area.  Now the greatest obstacle to this “sorting” was the inflatable dinghy given to me last October by friend and neighbour Jenny.

Knowing that I would not be around to keep an eye on the vessel I had deflated it and stowed it in the space at the bottom of the steps leading up to our little rooftop sun terrace.

It was decreed that now I would be around to make daily security inspections the boat should be reflated and moored in a suitable place on the Ria. To this end around midday I dragged the offending conveyance into our narrow cobbled street and commenced the arduous task of blowing it up using a foot pump whilst Joan busied herself sweeping and organising the yard.

I had toiled away unsupervised and in my view quite successfully at this task for some forty minutes before Joan felt the need to emerge from the house and assess the situation.

It was at this point, just as Joan was demonstrating to me a superior and more efficient way of foot pumping, that the steady westerly breeze that had blown persistently since our arrival developed into a door slamming gust.

WHAM !!  We were outside in the street with the doors and windows firmly locked against us.

For me, as you can imagine, this was more than slightly annoying and a trifle inconvenient.

For Joan however who had not yet that day acquainted herself with the hairbrush, bra less and regaled in her best Primark PJs and carpet slippers it was a major catastrophe.

Not to worry. Jenny, just a hundred yards down the street, had a key and failing that our adopted Portuguese family the Baptistas also held one.

For the dual purpose of hiding her embarrassment and retrieving the key Joan scurried off in her PJs to Jenny’s whilst I popped into Restaurant Alcatruz just opposite our house to inform them of our plight and see if anyone could contact the Baptistas. Joan quickly established that the key at Jenny’s was now unfortunately in the possession of another friend, Carole, who lives out in the sticks on the road to Cachopo and I equally quickly found that nobody in the Baptista household was answering their mobile phone.

Shouting down the street to Joan who was now directing operations from the second floor balcony of Jenny’s apartment along with Jen and her visitors Clive and Janice I informed her I would walk round to the Baptistas and retrieve our fall back key.

On arriving at the Baptistas I found father, Jose, and mother, Luisa, busy in the kitchen preparing dishes for youngest son Jose’s birthday party which we were due to attend the following day.

Neither Jose (senior) nor Luisa speak any English but I managed in my faltering Portuguese to explain that the wind had blown the door shut leaving us stranded in the street and I needed the spare key.

“Ha problema” Jose (senior) explained. The last time the key was seen it was in the possession of eldest son Berto who is currently resident in our house in Leeds.

Not to worry. Granddaughter Anna-Rachel was promptly dispatched upstairs to wake youngest son Jose (junior) on holiday at home from Leeds to celebrate his birthday.

Minutes later a bare chested and decidedly fragile looking Jose (junior) appeared and, despite having been out till the early hours of the morning celebrating with girlfriend Adriana (and smelling like a brewery in full production),  declared his willingness to come and scale the wall and restore us to our property.

Arriving back in Rua Joao Antonio Chagas ferrier  we found a small group of Portuguese diners from restaurant Alcatruz enjoying a smoke in the street and examining the now abandoned dinghy with the grandstand party of Joan, jenny, Janice and Clive watching on from down the road.

A small stepladder was produced by the owners of Alcatruz but it was evident this was not going to get Jose over the three metre high wall into our yard. Joan, some hundred yards down the street, was bellowing at me from the roof terrace to call on another neighbour, Andre, who she felt sure owned a longer ladder. Dashing to Andre’s I explained to him our predicament. This however took a little longer than it should have as in my heightened state of excitement I had reverted to my full speed broad Yorkshire accent which French speaking Andre struggled to follow.

Having made myself understood I emerged from Andre’s triumphantly toting the ladder on my shoulder to a scene that could have graced the script of any carry on film.

The group of Portuguese diners were jabbering excitedly as Jose slung a double extension ladder he had acquired from a local painter and decorator up against our wall. Luis from Alcatruz was for some reason tearing down the street with the small stepladder and Joan was loudly declaring from the roof terrace that I was too bloody late as Jose already had ladders.

Quick as a flash Jose scaled the wall, crab walked across the pitched roof and gaining the sun terrace came down and opened the door to a round of applause from the assembled Portuguese diners and other interested parties.

Restored to my domain I rewarded our young hero with a beer and jammed a screwdriver under the door to ensure no repetition of our embarrassment.

The street quickly returned to its normal sleepy quietness, Joan returned from PJ exile, Jose was restored to his family and I toddled off into the sunset to moor the little boat that started it all.

Just another day in Santa Luzia. “Noa Faz Mal”..

Joan examines the little boat that caused it all.