Everything in relation to its opposite
Welcome to Portugal in August
From the cool of a darkened room, I hear wind blowing outside, and I fear for the people whose direction it blows in.
Sitting in a friend's garden, seeking shelter from the sun beneath the black walnut, we hear sirens wailing in the distance.
Plumes of smoke erupt from behind the hills in multiple directions, though this year there's no scent of wood ash. It's carried somewhere else this year.
There's the ticking of a clock.
Welcome to Central Portugal in August time. These are the sounds of the summer, alongside the deeply tribal drumbeat accompanying the rancho dancers, happy-go-lucky pimba music, and of course, all of those motorbikes on the road here, for the annual bike festival.
The sharp heat of the day sends me inside to sit by the fan. Beyond 10am, it's too hot to walk very far.
A fire roars at the edge of the municipality, spreading in the wrong direction, out instead of in. Checking in on the fire app only tells stories of other fires starting here and there.
We've all been here before.
The smoke comes pouring in.
People are in holiday mode, drinking beer on the streets. Cafe proprietors have put out extra benches for their punters. The interior swells, and people, laughing, flick cigarette buts into the road, into the forest, into wherever they happen to be.
I wonder how these smokers can have missed the cues. They're not foreigners, flown in from cooler climes, but people in from the city, with TVs in their living rooms. They must be aware of the fires and the risks associated with a spark. But how much can we really blame the people when we live in a mafia-led tinder box?
Parties and festivals are cancelled. We stay tuned in. Friends evacuate their homes. Others spend the day fighting flames. We visit a cafe to watch the news.
All it would take were a piece of broken glass tilted at the sun; the spark of a machine; a barbeque ember. The rain (beautiful drops of silver rain that brought up the scents of Earth) two nights ago was welcome here, but where it didn't fall, lightning struck already scorched earth, making things worse.
Night comes. Our village decides to have its festa. Music blares into the night and I'm glad for the hundreds of pairs of eyes keeping watch as I sleep.
This place I call my home, I love. I love it for its old-fashionedness and the warmth of its people, but I love it despite the fact that, by proportion, it has more land planted with eucalyptus than any country in the world. Sure, China, Australia, Brazil and India each have more eucalyptus trees than Portugal, but Portugal's tiny size means that around 10 percent of its mass is plantation.
It used to break my heart to enter the forest that's not a forest, but you get used to walking alongside these trees. They start to talk to you. They should be majestic, those trees, but here, far from their natural habitat, they're spindly yet persistent reminders of Portugal's poor status. Occasionally, one or two find a water source beneath their roots. If they're spared the woodman's chainsaw, they might grow large enough to really be in awe of.
Eucalyptus is an incredible tree. It emits an oil (wonderful smelling in winter) that inhibits the growth of other specimens. It shoots up towards the sky, casting hardly any shade on the earth, making the soil crack and dry in the harsh summer sun. And, most importantly, it depletes Portugal's sparse water table, its roots spreading as far and wide as the fires that strip it of its bark but don't destroy it. Often, the roots are shallow, competing directly (and almost always winning) with those of other plants, but, where necessary, those roots can dig deep into the earth to find any water available.
They make good fuel and excellent paper. I like writing in notebooks and reading books, and so, I'm grateful for paper. Next month we'll be thinking of stocking up our wood pile for the winter.
As some drive to the safety of family homes in Lisbon, we listen to the sounds of relief pounding from large speakers. As some wash the soot from their smoke-smothered bodies at the end of a long day fighting flames, we stay vigilant, keeping one eye on the fire app and the other on the sky.
Polarity
Everything exists in relation to its opposite.
In spring, it rained for weeks and weeks. Rain was our enemy; we longed for the sun. Now we're spoilt by sunlight; a night rainstorm sees me whooping with delight. I'm glad to burn a nice hardwood in the chill of winter, but in summer I balk at the smell of woodsmoke.
For there to be joy (or comfort, or safety) in life, we must find that balance between one thing and the next.
Unless it's right there on your doorstop—or you have relevant skills—even if you can see it from your doorstep, there's not much to be done. You have to go about your life, sweat trickling down your back, trying to stay focused on whatever the task at hand happens to be. And when it is on your doorstep, it demands you to act right now, so you'd better consider what that might mean before the time arrives.
"If you need anything of us," said my neighbour, "let us know. It's in God's hands now but we can help one another."
It's in God's hands.
And it's in our hands.
So what will we do?