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Travel StoriesSpain And The Faro Rally 2005 - By Ren Withnell
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 7
I wake up, the sun is shining and I'm sweaty in my bag. I get up, dress and go to wash some more thermals and socks and shorts. The washing facilities are to say the least basic. A tap and a trough on a metal sheet are all you get. None the less I get some odd looks as I scrub and lather up a whole heap of clothes which I wrap around my neck when clean. I walk back to the tent dripping then hang my clothes on the tree and guy ropes from the tent. There's very little to do during the day so I grab some clean dry thermals, kit up and head out to see what sort of place Faro is.
Outside the site I'm directed and waved on by the local police. I wonder how much this rally is worth to the locals to be able to provide a constant police presence. In town all the billboards and bus stops advertise both caution messages and welcome signs for rally goers. The warnings advise pictorially not to wheelie or go fast and to wear your helmet. The town centre is crowded with holiday makers and bikers alike, sitting outside cafes and drinking tea or alcohol. The small harbour holds hundreds of small boats all tied to jetties and the area is filled with small tourist shops and hotels. All the building are of 5,6,7 storeys and I find myself thinking this is all starting to look the same somehow. Did I mention it is very hot?
Faro Harbour
But this is not what I came to see. I have no interest in the tourist places, I want to see how the locals live, to see the Algarve for what it is not how it is presented to the tourists. I head inland through the town full of shops, cafes and hotels and into the suburbs. It all starts to look like the Spanish cities. There are no houses but endless rows of 5,6,7 storey apartments with clothes hanging out of windows covered in flaking paint, wasteland covered in rubble and rubbish, dry open areas and building sites each sprouting several cranes. All through Spain there are cranes. Cranes in the middle of the desert, in small villages and across the skyline of every city. I stop and look for life. Cars fly up and down streets but there are only occasional pedestrians and dogs rummaging amongst the rubbish.
Apartments in Faro 
Wasteland and rubble 
Cranes everywhere
I sit against a wall in the shade to think for a while. All I hear back home is how everyone hates living in the UK and how they are going to move to Spain or the Algarve as soon as they have the money. Have they seen this? Have they seen the streets round the back of the town? Do they all arrive on planes and get whisked away to fancy hotels? Do the holiday home sales people carefully plan their routes to avoid these areas? Does the sun blind folks to the reality? I know the UK is cold, wet and miserable, but this part of the world is too hot. Prices are high in the UK but this part of the world does not seem cheap, only slight savings are to be made mostly on cigarettes and fuel. Fuel in Spain is three-quarters the price of UK fuel and Portugal is almost the same as home. No, it's not cheap here anymore. I shout to myself "Why would ANYONE want to live HERE?". Perhaps I'm missing home more than I thought.
I go back into town to a shopping complex I'd noticed on the way out. The supermarket offers no tins of food I recognise except baked beans. I purchase beans, bread and some chocolate. I then wander round the rest of the mall to see what is there. I duly note there is a Burger King, McDonalds and KFC, so if all else fails I shall not starve. I return to the site at tea time and cook the beans to eat with the bread. It's so hot the bread is almost toast anyhow.
Friday evening is much busier on the site. My tent is surrounded now by other tents and motorcycle mayhem. I look at some of the bikes. There are plenty of smaller bikes belonging to teenagers and in poor repair. Tyres are bald, bits hang off or are taped on, seats are ripped and the exhaust has been "modified" These bikes are ridden by youths wearing just shorts and any kind of helmet. Cycle helmets, horse riding helmets and hard hats all seem to be legally acceptable protection. It scares me when one youth climbs aboard his bald-tyred noisy machine, kicks it into life and revs it mercilessly until his beautiful girlfriend climbs on wearing shorts and a bikini top. Both are carrying dirty old open-face helmets, but not wearing them. I imagine how she will look covered in scars.
This girl is perhaps one of the more protected people I'd seen.
Before I carry on, I need to explain something. I'm not tough, I can't fight my way out of a paper bag and anger is something I only show to those I know love me and I feel I can trust to forgive me. I have been insulted, threatened and even hit and never retaliated. I will seethe and curse within myself but outwardly I only show distaste. Some people call me a wimp and for the most part I am. My strength lies in other areas.
I'm stood next to my tent in the burning sun wearing just my shorts and watching a group pitch tent behind me. I say "Ola" to one chap who looks my way and we start to talk, as best he can in his basic English. They have come from Lisbon is about all I can understand. I'll call this man "man 1" as I never got his name. Another man comes over to me and says "....casque?". It appears man 2 want to see my helmet, why I have no idea but I go and retrieve it from my tent. Next thing I know he says something along the line of "use your casque?...shops por amigo?". Again I struggle but get the impression man 2 would like to borrow my helmet for a while to take man 1 to the shops on his bike. Being the friendly sort of guy I am I agree, somewhat reluctantly. They climb onto a yellow fireblade wearing nothing but shorts and man 1 is on the back with my helmet on. I wonder if he has nits. Did I mention it is very hot?
I go and find the stag do crew in the main arena and we stand there looking at the ladies and wonder how to start up a conversation when we don't speak any of the lingo. Talking to strangers is hard enough, but when you don't know what language they are going to reply in it is too frightening. The site is really quite busy now with folks milling around and queuing everywhere for drinks and food. Passing the portable toilets the stench is getting scary, but nowhere near as revolting as the stench from the 2 stalls serving barbequed octopus tentacles. If there is one smell that will stay with me from this rally it is that of the octopus stalls. Yet people are queuing up and buying the hard, dry portions of suckers and sinew. Urgh.
I return to the tent about 1800, nearly 2 hours after I let my beloved helmet ride off into the sun. No helmet in the tent and no yellow fireblade. Cheeky bastards! I don't mind an hour or so to go and get supplies but the piss taking bastards seem to have gone out for a big trip, with my helmet. I'm livid and stomp back to the main arena and relate my story to the stag do crew. They tell me I'm a plonker but it'll be ok. I'm struggling to think straight but I relax and watch a highlight of the evening for me. On the stage are 20 to 30 ladies with drums of various sizes and types banging out rhythms lead by some energetic young chap. I sit there, awestruck and moved by the rising and pulsating beat from the drums. It's simple thing but so powerful and lively I'm captivated. I wish I was sat here with someone to share this with, someone who could feel what I'm feeling now.
I return to the tent about 2000 and check to see if my helmet is there. It is, along with the yellow fireblade, but no sign of man 1 or man 2. The sense of relief is comparable to that of finding a campsite on my day of hell. I zip up and go for a wander round. I'm thinking how cheeky are these people and why did he not bring his own helmet, do they know how I felt or are these things normal in this dry, arid and inhospitable climate. My feet are killing me now. Over the last 2 nights and days all this wandering is taking it's toll. Most folks have brought along or purchased sandals to keep feet cool but I cannot purchase sandals and wear them. They would need to go to the cobblers to have a thicker sole put on the left sandal, otherwise I'd be limping badly and only able to manage a few hundred yards. As it is with my big walking boots the blisters on my soles are making me limp and only able to walk short distances before I need to stop anyhow. I remove my boots to check the blisters and let some air get to them. It is most painful.
I return to the tent about 2130 to get a t-shirt as the air is finally cooling down now. I open the tent and let out a load angry scream. My bloody helmet is not where it should be. I look around and the fireblade is gone too. The cheeky effing stupid evil tw....onkers have taken my helmet again. No asking, no may we, no courtesy or consideration, just taken it as though it's theirs to use whenever they want. I'm not livid, livid does not even begin to describe the anger I'm feeling now. I am the king of self control, I don't drink, don't like to make a scene and I'm always looking for the quiet life. But today I'm screaming English curses to these effing Portuguese ignorant and cheeky bastards. I'm outside my tent kicking the dirt and flailing my arms. People are starting to come out their tents or stopping as they pass by to look at the sunburnt English bloke ranting like a demon who's lost his powers and cursing in as many languages as he can think of, and some he doesn't even know.
It takes a few minutes to realise what sort of an idiot I look like so I move off, not sheepishly which would be my normal way. I stomp and scowl at the onlookers, shouting at one big hairy fella "what?!?!" as he makes some comment to his partner. I'm confused, at a loss what to do. I want instant retribution and resolution but it is not forthcoming, which makes me worse. I want to rip the head wearing my helmet right off and stuff it up the arse of its owner. I consider telling the Moto Clube Faro officials of my plight, but what would they say "You lent it to them you fool", in Portuguese of course. I could go out and look for it, but I have no helmet to wear to ride the streets. The more things I think of and the more reasons I see they are pointless make me worse and worse.
I find the stag do crew and relate my story through clenched teeth. I think G is actually quite surprised to see me like this. We talk with 2 Portuguese guys who speak good English and they laugh at my plight and seem fairly confident my helmet will return. I am sure it will return, my objection is to folks taking things without asking, assuming my lending it once means they can borrow it whenever they see fit. I cannot settle, I cannot have fun whilst this is running around and around in my head. I excuse myself and wander on my sore blistered feet and curse everything. Curse these bloody dirty foreigners, curse this draining heat, curse these stupid bikers drinking themselves into numbness, curse these bloody feet, curse this country of rubble and rubbish, curse this country of crap food, curse their stupid languages, curse their ugly women and curse everything!
Sometime around 2300 I head back to the tent. I don't know why, I'm never going to sleep with this spinning round my head, with my body tense and twisted, with outstanding issues unresolved and without my effing helmet. As I walk back I spot the yellow fireblade. Man 2 is riding, man 1 is on the back but he's not got my helmet on! Oh sh..ugar, where the effing hell is it? The bike behind has a pillion and man 3 is wearing my beautiful helmet resplendent with warning triangles. The bikes pass by and I run after. This is perhaps the first time I have run properly since I re-learnt to walk after my accident. Even in my angry state I'm surprised and pleased at the fact I can run, even if it is somewhat clumsily.
"CASQUE...CASQUE you miserable effin bastards!!!!" I shout as load as I can. "CASQUE!!!...who the effing hell do you think you are..." A tirade of swearwords and curses pour forth from my mouth, I have totally lost control. 4 puzzled Portuguese men look at me frothing from my mouth. Man 1 approaches and mutters "...sorry...thank you" and man 3 returns my helmet and offers me his hand. Instinctively I go to shake it then pull back and continue my foul-mouthed curses and questions. I'm looking for blood, I'm actually looking for a fight in a foreign country with 4 men all bigger than myself and the support of a whole country behind them. Of course they do not understand a word I am saying, it's my body language and tone of voice they recognise. They simply keep on repeating "...sorry..." until I run out of breath and they walk away.
I put my helmet into the inner tent this time and cover it with my sleeping bag. I zip up and limp away slowly on my blistered feet. I return to the main arena and Nazareth are on stage. Hell, I don't even know who Nazareth are let alone any of their music so I wander round some more and eventually find myself at the stag do crew's tents. G, the stag, is in bed but 4 of the others are outside finishing off drinks and chatting. Again I relay the rest of the story. Much discussion ensues about the attitude towards property here compared to home and how you really must stick up for yourself no matter the odds. I agree but I know deep inside I will always be a wimp. My strengths lie elsewhere.
An Englishman's helmet is his castle, and yes, I would fight for it.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Preparation
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 1
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 2
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 3
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 4
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 5
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 6
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 7
The Portuguese coastline is not quite what Ren was expecting. Then there's the case of the disappearing helmet.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 8
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 9
Ren has to brave the plastic portaloos of HELL at the Faro Rally. It's also time to leave the noise and chaos and get back on the road Northbound
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 10
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 11
It's another long and hot ride across the Spanish scenery. Still, every sweaty mile is a mile closer to home.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 12
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 13
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 14
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Aftermath
Reader's Comments
Anglophobe said :-
Algarve was always a desertic region "burro", it is the way it is because it became a region for atlantic rednecks (aka. the english) turists such as yourself. And this rally is for the masses that love bikes and not cinderellas, or not for people that have a problem taking a crap on a dirty bathroom once or two times a year, or for people that actually have a triangle on their helmet (wtf?!? you are not kiding when you say you are a wimp...) Do us all a favour and dont return Sir. Wankalot.
Signed - Pork n´Cheese
01/01/2000 00:00:00 UTC
Anglophobe said :-
PS - You lend them your helmet?!? You deserved to go home without it wimp...
01/01/2000 00:00:00 UTC
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Travel StoriesSpain And The Faro Rally 2005 - By Ren Withnell