Bungalow

Our bungalow! Jungle behind and ocean in front... no electricity except between 6 and 10pm, no windows, one decent mosquito net.

Old Money

I tried to change $50 into Cambodian riel before we left Saigon. It took a lot of time, counting and conversation behind the desk... eventually the money changer informed us that they only had $13.60 worth of riel. Well, that would have to do. We weren't sure whether we would be able to use dollars right at the border so we wanted to at least have some local money in our pockets. Turns out $13.60 worth of riel is a stack about 2 inches high stuffed into my handbag. Not only that, but they must have had it so long that they gave me some bills that are long out of currency here. At first that was annoying, then we decided that these might well be collector's items and, at a minimum, would make good souvenirs. Apparently, the Khmer Rouge, in its attempt to eradicate all ties with the cultural past as well as corrupting influences like money, eliminated currency entirely. These bills aren't dated like the contemporary ones but may well be pre-Khmer Rouge bills. In any case, the locals won't take them, so even though they're only worth less than a US penny each we're going to hang onto them as souvenirs.

SEALS training, 2

... after the jumping jacks, two stragglers swam up. The slow pair. They got to do their jumping jacks separately, while everyone else razzed them for being last. After that, everyone kneeled over and got a pat on the butt by the oarsman, for which they had to thank him profusely. All the fast guys got more or less a symbolic pat, but he put a little more force into it for the slow pair.

Navy SEALS

Our bungalow at the Koh Ta Kiev "resort" - really just five bungalows and a tree house grouped around one small outdoor restaurant - was just down the shore from the Cambodian equivalent of a Navy SEALS training camp. After swimming several laps out to a bouey and back, these guys had to pull their drill sergeant's boat ashore in front of us to provide some breakfast entertainment. First, jumping jacks...

Sunset at Koh Ta Kiev

Sunset from in front of our bungalow, just a few yards from a warm, placid bay in the Gulf of Thailand.

Fooling around on the boat.

I guess I spoke too soon about this being a decent internet connection... image uploads are very, very slow and unfortunately I can't upload any of Patrick's high resolution pictures at all. So, oh well, for the moment mine will have to do!

Transport to Koh Ta Kiev

We really wanted to go to one of the islands off the Southern coast and stay in a rustic bungalow. Koh Ta Kiev was one we only found out about after we arrived and it took a bit of organizing to get there... a car to a small dock area at the tip of Ream National Forest, one of the protected jungle and wildlife areas in this region, followed by a boat pick up arranged by the resort on the island. This was the boat that arrived to pick us up.

Monks

I finally have a little time with a decent internet connection to post some pictures. This one is of two monks doing their lunch rounds in Kampot, Cambodia. Communities support their local monks by feeding them breakfast, lunch and dinner on a daily basis... rain or shine, the monks walk around town with their begging bowls to collect food and community members give them something to eat.

Patrick helping cook at the Mekong homestay

Crossing the Line

Vietnamese telephone repair call

Nguyen showing us some of the Mekong farm products

We were determined to make the border crossing into Cambodia at the new Xa Xia station we had read about in our Lonely Planet. This is the far Southern route, connecting coastal towns of Vietnam with coastal towns of Cambodia. The closest town to the Xa Xia station is Ha Tien, a big enough town to have it's own listing in the Lonely Planet, though admitted off route for most foreign travelers. It made more sense to go that way, but... but everyone we talked to, every hotel desk, every tour operator, even Huong and Vong, said that we should instead go through Chau Doc. They aren't that far apart judging from the map, but the Chau Doc route takes you through the common tourist trail for Mekong Delta tours then spits you out into Cambodia en route to Phnom Penh. From Phnom Penh you transfer and get on a bus to Sihanoukville. 12 hours total. Except that we wanted to go along the coast... it seemed to make more sense.

Eventually, if you ask long enough, you find someone who offers you what you want. And so, the day before we were due to leave Saigon, we wandered into the Kim Travel office, told them what we wanted and, for the first time, got a response that didn't involved furrowed eyebrows. “Sure,” he said, “we can arrange a private car with driver to take you to Ha Tien.” Great! Just what we wanted. We made the arrangements and went off to enjoy our last evening in Saigon.

I had originally wanted to spend several days on this part of our journey, meandering around the Mekong Delta area in a private car, getting off the main road and exploring some of the smaller villages farther South. In the end, we decided to make a beeline to the border instead and so we mostly drove along the busy main road, a 2-lane highway lined with dirt paths and dusty shops and homes, and providing the main travel artery for bicycles, motorbikes, pedestrians and children playing as well as a handful of larger transport vehicles and some buses and minivans. It was a miracle we didn't hit anything along the way, as we were passing people with barely an inch of clearance – typical Vietnamese driving conditions – for hours on end.

If you look at a map of Vietnam, you can see that, as the crow flies, the distance between Saigon and Ha Tien is probably about like driving from Palo Alto to Sacramento, maybe less. But because of the rutted and crowded road conditions in this region, we broke it up into two days. The travel company had made arrangements for us to do a “homestay” on Vinh Long Island, which is in the middle of the Delta region. We did some touring with our trusty guide Nguyen (pronounced “Win”), visiting parts of the island by boat, having lunch along the riverbanks, taking a bicycle ride along its dirt pathways, then finally settled in to one of several family guest houses set up to house tourists.

Next day, some more touring on the boat ride back to town, then Mr. Chu picked us up and we continued along our way to Ha Tien. I think it's safe to say we were both glad to get off the bumpy Mekong road.

The land crossing itself was interesting. If we'd arrived in Phnom Penh at the main airport, we would have gotten our visas and gone through customs pretty much like anywhere else. But making the crossing by land is a whole other experience. It's one of those borders where you exit the first country in one place and enter the next in another. In between is a no man's land between the two countries which you traverse by foot. First things first, the Vietnamese authorities stamped our passports goodbye. Ten feet later we passed an inoperative looking baggage scanning machine, walking slowly past in case someone wanted us to use it. Another 10 feet and we're at the Defense Ministry exit station, with guys looking information up in large books before waiving us along. This was a fairly routine stop, thank goodness, since you've already technically exited the country, so in the event that you are determined to be some kind of exiting defense threat, I'm not sure under whose jurisdiction you would be detained, or which government would be in charge of making sure you get to call your embassy.

“Good luck!” the defense officer called out to us as we walked away and began our 2 kilometer trek through no man's land. “Good luck?” we said to each other... “that sounds ominous. What does he know?”

The weather was balmy with a cool breeze blowing and it was a pleasant walk across. On the far side, we first stopped at the visa office, a tiny, cinder block hut where two officials met us and handed us some forms. One of them engaged us in an apparently innocuous conversation about some relative that lived in California, during which we noticed, as he at one point leaned forward, that in fact the “conversation” was being recorded. More like an entry interview. Maybe they wanted to make sure we really are from California. Meanwhile, the other guy had hauled out a book of visa stickers and told us the price, $50 each, or so we understood. I felt Patrick cringe at my side. We knew that the real price should be between $20 and $30 each. But what can you do? The price isn't posted so you pay what they ask... and once they've told you how much you're going to pay, well, they couldn't very well negotiate – that would be an admission that they were keeping some for themselves. So, reluctantly, Patrick pulled out fifty bucks and gave it to the sticker guy. A moment later, I did as well.

After everything we'd heard about official corruption in Cambodia, we were totally unprepared for what happened next. Sticker guy smiled and handed me back my $50! “It's $50 for two together,” he said. “I wouldn't want to take too much.” With a smile.

“Oh. I see. Thank you.”

So much for Cambodian corruption. OK, next stop: the Health Inspector. Another tiny cinder block hut, this one with a lone medical officer inside. And more forms. No, we are not sick. No, we have never, ever, in our entire lives had any of the conditions listed below. We are healthy and whole and absolutely do not need to be detained for any length of time in the little room marked “Cambodian Medical Quarantine” behind the doctor. No way would I want to spend even an hour in that room. Fortunately, this too was a piece of cake. He waved a temperature sensing device near our ears – several inches away from what I could tell, didn't even seem close enough to get any kind of valid reading at all. Then he charged us a dollar each for our medical inspections and waved us on our way.

Next stop, last stop, finally, was immigration where... more forms, more surreptitious conversations, at the end of which we were unceremoniously sent along our way with another chorus of “Good luck!” to the small collection of drivers waiting to take us to town. We were in Cambodia!

The road to Kampot was one of the most beautiful drives I've ever been on – bright green rice paddies being worked by families, limestone mountains jutting out of the flat earth, water buffalo and an occasional pig. Friendly children waving hello from the sides of the road. Bouncing along in a tuk tuk down this road on a cool December morning seemed like the perfect way to arrive in Cambodia, and we were glad that we'd been stubborn about making our way through Xa Xia.

Between then and now we spent a night in the riverside town of Kampot, followed by four nights on a tropical island that not only had no cars but no motorbikes as well. More on that later. Tomorrow early we leave for Chi Phat, a village with an ecotourism project that sounds fascinating. With any luck we'll be spending Christmas deep in the jungle of the Cardamom Mountains and unlikely to find a good wireless connection.

Continental Courtyard

I haven't blogged much on this trip, mostly because we've been places that don't have internet. Tonight is my window of opportunity since we'll be heading off again tomorrow morning to spend Christmas in the jungle – literally, from all we can tell.

So... to backtrack a little bit, we started off in Saigon, which was noisy and chaotic as always, although I find the Continental Hotel charming with its colonial era architecture and because it was the place where all the journalists hung out during the war. The central courtyard houses some very old trees, which themselves house a variety of tropical orchids. It's a great place to get away from the hecticness that is Saigon and cool off in the afternoon with a nice gin and tonic. We toasted our arrival in Southeast Asia there on our first day before heading upstairs for a massage. Patrick, of course, was accosted by his masseuse in pretty much the same way Robert was when he was here in 2006. My massage was fine.

Where, o where...???

Where are we? Where indeed... we've covered a lot of territory since leaving SFO on the midnight plane to Saigon. Two nights in the frenzied chaos of District 1, the tourist Mecca of Vietnam. Most Western tourists don't venture more than a couple of blocks outside this small area before moving on to other destinations but we were lucky to have lunch with my "Uncle" Vong and his wife, Huong at a local restaurant in another part of town. We passed on the eel, but the sauteed ostrich was tender and a local river fish was excellent.

We wanted to cross the border into Cambodia at a new border crossing site called Xa Xia, near the port town of Ha Tien, at the very south-western edge of Vietnam. We were quite stubborn about this. Every source of travel information we consulted wanted to channel us instead through the border crossing near Chau Doc. From there, they wanted us to get to Southern Cambodia via the capital, Phnom Penh. We were, as I said, quite stubborn about it and eventually found a travel operator that arranged a private driver for us. Thank god for that - and for the fact that foreigners can't rent cars and drive them themselves in Vietnam - because the road conditions in the Mekong Delta area are abysmal. In the end, we had a long but interesting drive with a lovely stop at a home stay on an island near Vinh Long. We "helped" cook dinner with the host family on an open fire and took a nice bike ride along the red dirt roads lining the many, many waterways that criss cross this area.

From Vinh Long, it was a good 5 hour drive to the town of Ha Tien, after which we unbderstood why everyone wrinkled their faces at us when we said we wanted to go this way. On the other hand, the limestone mountains in this seaside area are stunning, and the Cambodian countryside on the other side of the border is lush and green, full of rice paddies, small mountains rising abruptly out of flat fields, charming family farms and kind people all along the way.

Anyway, pictures and a better update later. This morning we're traveling from the town of Kampot to the island of Kho Ta Kiev, near the national forest of Ream. Hopefully, the driver we've arranged to take us to Ream Fishing Village shows up. And hopefully, the guy at the bumgalow, who seemed to take our reservation, and seemed to agree to pick us up in his boat and take us over there, hopefully that guy shows up. And hopefully the island of Ko Ta Kiev is as lovely as it looks in the photographs. As the border control officers said to us as we walked along the no man's land between Vietnam and cambodia, good luck to us!

Cambodia Bound

Time to get the blog going for the last trip of 2010. This time the destination is Cambodia. I've been to Vietnam, Laos and Thailand - all the bordering countries - but I was saving Cambodia... its dense jungles, remote islands, the ancient Khmer temples of Angkor Wat, the still-undiscovered species of the Southern Mekong and Cardamom ecosystems... I was saving Cambodia for something. I wasn't sure what. As it turns out, I was saving it until I had a partner who found all those things as interesting as I do and - and it's a big "and" - actually wanted to take a month long vacation in order to explore them all.

So we're off tomorrow, flying into Saigon for two days to visit with my Uncle Vong, then heading to Cambodia - by bus, by airplane, by boat or by motorbike, we don't quite know yet. Stay tuned...

Shingletown

The view from Patrick's deck in Shingletown.

I would have blogged more on this trip but it's hard to write while sitting on the back of a motorcycle. I can do it, but it's hard to hold a pen while wearing leather gloves and in any case I'm supposed to be holding onto something so I don't go flying off if we have to stop suddenly.

They don't pull over their own kind...

...except when they do.



Patrick charming his way out of a ticket. Or playing a game of cat and mouse - depending on your point of view.

Wagontire International Airport

Craters of the Moon

Strange fields of lava somewhere between Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Boise.

Mr. Pickles

And what road trip would be complete without a stop at Mr. Pickles' burger joint...



...and a little rest and silliness in the big green chair?

Tetons

We stopped for a rest along the shore of Jackson Lake, in the Tetons.

Yellowstone!

The requisite photo at the entrance to Yellowstone... through the windshield.

Ain't No White People Left in California

You have a lot of casual gas station conversations when you're riding across the country on a motorcycle. For one thing, you have to stop a lot. The tank only holds 6 gallons and some stretches of road are pretty desolate - you never really know how far it's going to be to the next station so you fill up when you can. When you do, chances are someone is going to walk over to admire the motorcycle in a terse ritual that doesn't change much from state to state, generally starting off with, "Nice bike."

"Thanks."

"Where ya headed?"

"California."

"Cool- that's a nice ride."

"Yeah."

And so it goes. You see a lot of Harleys along the way, but you don't see a lot of BMWs. And it's a new model. The guys who really know motorcycles see that and they want to delve a little deeper, ask how fast it goes, examine the controversial placement of the rearview mirrors. How's that cruise control working out for ya? Sometimes it takes a while, which is fine with me because we're on a stretch break and I'm not in any hurry to pull that protective coccoon they call a helmet back over my head. Apparently, this motorcycle is similar to the ones the Highway Patrol cops use, which at least partly explains why Patrick has ridden it 11,000 miles in the last 5 weeks without so much as a flick of the siren. They don't pull over their own kind.

People are pretty nice to us considering we're from California. You know what people think about Californians in other parts of the country, especially up here in the northern Bible belt. If a kid from Wyoming tells his parent he's moving to California, all kinds of scary thoughts run through their minds... nude beaches, Liberal politics, Castro Street. So the locals could be excused for being a bit wary, but they aren't. They either ignore us or engage, generally around the motorcycle. What's weird, though, is how you can be having a seemingly normal conversation with a kind and friendly stranger, and then they'll randomly let out some comment that reveals what should be a deep, dark and shameful secret. Only for them, it's just a casual remark. "California, huh? We used to live in California," one lady says, scrubbing the windows of her husband's Ford with a squeegee. "Lotta Mexicans over there."

It's hard to know what to say to that. We did take it from Mexico, after all.

"Ain't no white people left in California," she continues, as if the land we call California had ever been predominently white before the 20th century. But what can you say to a comment like that coming from an otherwise kind and friendly person?

"We're there," Patrick says, "so there's at least two of us."

She had to think about that a minute, and by then we were back on the bike and continuing on our way.

Yellowstone to Jackson

Crazy hot springs bubbling up from the core of the earth.



And bison grazing along the roads and foot paths.

Which brings us through the majestic Tetons and on to charming Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where we watched the fireworks last night over some delicious Thai food. And now it's time to pack up the bike again and make our way closer to home - next stop somewhere in Idaho.

Yellowstone!

One night at the Canyon Lodge in Yellowstone... beautiful!

Cody Parade

Cody 3rd of July Parade

Black Hills to Cody, Wyoming was a long day on the bike. It didn't seem possible, but Wyoming was even windier than South Dakota. Kind of scary at times. The wind hits you and you have to lean the bike into it, then that gust goes away and suddenly you have to unlean it again... you'll be passing a treeline or hillside that offers a little protection, then suddenly - boom! Blasted from the left again. We got off at one rest stop and people were practically watching their children blow away when they got out of their cars. But somehow we managed to make it all the way to quintessentially Western Cody, Wyoming. We'd called around for a reservation over lunch and had a hard time finding a room. Then we noticed what looked like a big street party going on along Main Street. When we checked in at the historic Chamberlin Inn, we asked the girl at the front desk if there was something special going on in town. "Uh, it's the fourth of July weekend," she said. "We celebrate that here." Oh, right! Fourth of July... we'd forgotten all about it. We joined the locals for a drink at the 2nd of July street party later that night, then came out early to watch the 3rd of July parade down Main Street. Lots of beautiful horses and patriotic small town groups marching down the street to applause from the appreciative ranchers and townspeople who'd gathered to watch.

Black Hills campsite

Crazy Horse - a work in progress

Mt. Rushmore

From Kadoka, we continued through Badlands, South Dakota. Badlands lives up to its name - a parched landscape of rolling rock formations that probably looked forbidding to the pioneers who were first trying to make their way across the country. If I had read the park guide in the morning, I would have realized that we were within 25 miles of the Wounded Knee Massacre historical site, which I would have loved to see... as it was I didn't know that until we were on the other side of the park. It would have been a 90 minute detour back through that windy, parched landscape instead of continuing toward the more inviting Black Hills.

It's a challenge to get all the motorcyle gear just right. The helmet has to fit snug so that it stays on if you are unfortunate enough to fall off (which I, so far, have not), but not so snug that it gives you a headache, which develops quickly if something isn't exactly right. Mine fits just right until I braid my hair up to keep it from blowing around into a big tangled mat. Add in the braid and I totally change the fit of the helmet. No good. No braid. The leather pants are comforting when you're being blown around the highway by vicious crosswinds, at least if you fall off you'll go a pretty good distance before the road starts biting into your flesh, but just thinking about gearing up in a jacket, gloves, helmet and leather pants when it's 98 degrees outside makes you sweat. As long as you're moving, you create your own breeze to cool you off; if you have to stop, you're counting the seconds til you can get moving again. We have to stop a lot for various road work projects funded by the Obama dollars.

Anyway, by the time we got to the Black Hills the heat was gone, my mask filled with the scent of green forest, and soon our biggest challenge was outrunning a thunderstorm developing from the West. We snagged a campsite just in time for the big drops to come pouring down on us while we set up the tent, then of course the storm just as suddenly disappeared pretty much as soon as we were done. Being so close to Mount Rushmore, we had to make the all-American pilgrimage. We also went to the Crazy Horse mountain sculpture nearby, though, which we thought was more interesting, even though it isn't nearly complete.

The Windy Prairie

Given what I do for a living, I am used to flying somewhere for no other reason than to turn around and come back again. Most students' cross country flights follow that pattern... fly to an unfamiliar airport, land, come home. Maybe get them lost in one direction or another. So it only seemed a little bit weird to land in Fargo Tuesday morning, have a quick bite to eat, then hop on the motorcycle and start heading for California.

For some reason, I always thought of prairie as dry and brown, but the Dakotas are lush and prosperous. Everywhere you go, fields of green wheat undulating in the wind, and fat, healthy looking free range cows. Forget being a vegetarian, we're in beef country and the steaks are fabulous. Towns are small and every one seems to be based around the central grain storage and grinding facility. Even now in the 21st century, the capacity of the grain silo seems to be what limits expansion. Rolling down the road, you see well-kept farm after well-kept farm... very few dilapidated structures, and no litter. None.

Ever since I decided to come on this trip, people have been telling me their scary motorcycle stories of impalement, decapitation and general road rash. But by the time I got to Fargo I really wasn't worried about that. The bike is comfortable, and since leaving California five weeks ago, Patrick has already ridden it some 9000 miles through wind, rain, snow, thunderstorms. Everything but tornados. Riding from Napoleon, North Dakota yesterday we had heat in the high 90s and, since there's nothing to stop it, like mountains or even trees, wind of 25 mph or more gusting straight across the road. Getting blown halfway across a runway by a gust of wind is one thing - at least you're nestled in an FAA approved metal cabin. Getting blown halfway across a lane on a motorcycle demands even more sustained attention than landing an airplane. Add to that several miles of unexpected road work going through the Indian Reservation and yesterday was a real endurance test, but we made it just fine and had a nice evening in Kadoka, South Dakota. Which is where we are now, packed and ready to go except for me typing away here so... more later. Picture is of the grain facility in Napoleon.

Fargo Bound

It's about time I post something new on my travel blog. The last entry was that picture of the piles of raw meat Caroline and I had for lunch a few days before I left Paris in January. Now that I'm a quasi-vegetarian, that just doesn't look appealing at all. Time to move it along to a less prominent spot.

Where next? Fargo, North Dakota.

When? Tonight!

What's there? A man and a motorcycle.

To be continued...

Pictures from Paris

Caroline demonstrates her Italian style boef tartare (I think there's a letter missing)... not that they eat raw hamburger in Italy. I had the traditional French style.

When I said I wanted to see an exhibit of Mesoamerican artifacts, I had no idea the gallery would be at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. What a nice surprise!

Fresco from "Teotihuacan: The City of the Gods" exhibit at musee du quai Branly.

Teotihuacan artist's paint palatte.

There were several other collections at the same museum.

Next day, I had lunch with my friend Eva, who I met in Vilnius last year, very happy that she happened to be in Paris at the same time as me.

Running of the Bulls... Madrid Style

We were told that Madrid was the place to be on New Year's Eve, and it was no lie. Every hotel in town was sold out. Ours was on Calle Huertas, in what had to be one of the most lively parts of town. Throngs of people donned silly wigs and hats - long, short, pink, purple, fros, fairies, you name it, you'll find it on some reveller's head. Entrepreneurs from other continents sold party horns, beer and bottles of champagne from makeshift stands on the sidewalk. An endless supply of sangria flowed through the cobblestone streets.

We arrived late on December 30 and immediately left to check out the town. Puerta del Sol. That's where we were supposed to go at midnight on New Year's Eve. We can barely make our way there through the crowds. Everyone is happy, laughing, having a good time... clutching their bottles of champagne and bags of grapes as if it were the 31st. The tradition is to eat one grape for every chime of the bell at midnight on the 31st. "I wonder why people have grapes with them tonight?" Trish says.

"I have no idea."

"Today's the 30th, right?"

"I think so." The bus tickets we used today said December 30. "It has to be" I add, unconvinced. "But you're right that they seem to be getting ready to celebrate."

"Maybe it's a dress rehearsal," Trish says, and we laugh.

"I wouldn't put it past them," I say. "Only in Madrid."

We stop to talk to a guy selling enormous plastic sunglasses for 3 euros a pair. "Why is everyone celebrating tonight?" we ask him.

"Como?" He doesn't understand our dialect.

A group of fashionable Spaniards stop to buy some glasses. "Why is everyone celebrating tonight?" we ask one of them.

"It's a practice," he says.

"Practice?"

"Yes."

"For tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"You mean like a dress rehearsal?"

"Yes, it's a rehearsal for tomorrow."

I look at Trish. "You were right!" And at that very moment, the entire crowd makes a move for the plaza. Some people check their watches as they start trotting. Within moments it's a full on stampede. We look up the street and it's as if all of humanity is galloping towards us. Towards the Puerta del Sol square, in fact, but we happen to be in the way.

"Oh my god," Trish says, "it's the running of the bulls!"

"Come on... it must be almost midnight!" We run with them and make it to the square just in time for the practice dropping of the ball, just in time for the practice music, for the practice cork-popping, grape-eating, happy-new-year-wishing love fest that is New Year's Eve in Madrid.

Only tomorrow it will be even bigger, louder and happier.

Yay! Having left Portugal, we can have swordfish instead of codfish.

...or monkfish.

Fabulous Christmas Day pastries in Porto... how did I neglect to post these earlier?

Trish in her warm new paperboy hat, on the pedestrian bridge in Porto.

ISO Clan Gouveia

We went to Gouveia to search for Trish's family. Her wife's family, to be more precise. It became a bit of a mystery because we didn't find any living soul there with the family name of Gouveia. Nobody seemed to think there ever had been Gouveias in Gouveia. So was the town named after the family, or did the family name itself after the town? It could have happened either way.

If the town was named after the family, then the family would have been from the landed aristocracy. Our friend the bus station manager directed us to the ancient cemetary, where we might find remains of old families. It was a splendid cemetary climbing up a terraced hillside, with mausoleums lining both sides of a central path.

I expected to find the Gouveia family entombed in one of these mausoleums, but the names did not match. Lots of Ferreiras, lots of Da Silvas, but no Gouveias.

I peeked my head into a few where the curtains were tattered or pulled to one side. Many had 6 or 8 berths (what do you call a mausoleum bed?), a few with vacancies remaining.

"Well, maybe they had their own tombs on their land," I suggested. But we kept looking.

"Or maybe... maybe the family wasn't named Gouveia at all when they lived here. Maybe they only changed it when they moved to America."

"Maybe" said Trish.

"As a way to keep alive the memory of the place they came from," I added.

We kept looking. We read every headstone in the place, and only found one Gouveia. A man, I think he was, born 1915, more or less the same year the family emigrated to the United States. Died 1987... not so long ago by small town standards, so why does no-one seem to remember him? The mystery deepened.

I was more excited to find him than Trish was. "Maybe this guy was so homesick for the old country that he came back to Gouveia to be buried."

"Uh-huh."

I was pretty much talking to myself at this point.

"That's why no-one remembers him."

"Right."

"Or maybe they really were the landed family of the town, and they had to flee the country because they were on the wrong side of somebody's politics."

"Maybe."

"You know, it could be your castle."

"What?" At least I got her attention.

"The abandoned castle sitting up there at the top of the hill... maybe it belongs to your family. Wouldn't you like to reclaim the Gouveia castle?"

"Yes, Patti, we should come take back the castle."

We never did find any other Gouveias, but we found some really unique and impractical souvenirs... ceramics, liqueur, a jar of pumpkin marmalade. By the time we left, not only was Trish in danger of tipping over from the weight of her backpack but she had spawned a frontpack as well. Walking to the bus station in the pre-dawn streets, she could easily have been mistaken for a pregnant woman.

Portuguese mountain rescue dog.

All the towns in this part of the mountains seemed to have a burnt out tree on display near the town square. A reminder, perhaps, of the danger of forest fires???

A wolf-puppy that followed us home from a long walk. Trish was tempted to try to take him home with her.

Best meal of the trip. O Flor's wild boar with white beans. (O Flor is the second fabulous restaurant we found in this tiny town.)

More codfish, but at least O Flor adds fresh veggies.