23/01/05 - St Catarina Monthly Market

We had just missed the monthly market in Tavira and as we were looking at three different plots in the St Catarina area, we decided to head off to the monthly market at St Catarina. Getting dad organised was a mammoth task so we suggested to him to prepare for a trip the previous night, as we needed an early start. To no avail, as he didn't particularly want to go. So we set off for our trip, minus dad, full of expectation of fresh vegetables and maybe a treat, to serve up this evening when Martin and Silvia came for a meal. It was a good time to look around and get a feel for the village and the locals.

On the main road approaching St Catarina the roads were empty, John commented that perhaps we had got it wrong, but as we turned into the main street which runs through the village, we were faced with cars parked on both sides of the road, pedestrians of all nationalities with children, grandparents, dogs all heading for the huge market in the field. This was causing major problems for the two officers policing the event. Stop, start, stop again, we slowly edged our way into the makeshift car park. Vehicles parked this way and that on either side of the track.

Before we entered the market, our anticipation was heightened by the fantastic smells and the noises coming from the gypsy market. We moved faster towards to the hustle and bustle. We certainly weren't going to be disappointed. Which way to go, to the right, to be snared by the rotund gypsy with her money belt stretched tightly around her huge midriff, selling the beautiful crisp linen table cloths with their pretty flowers, and the favourite with the tourist the pure white lace version. There was none of the pestering, like the tourist markets in the western Algarve, but nevertheless, all shapes and sizes catered for, and also the serviceable bed linen.

To the left, were the Indians, with their smaller children playing at their feet. The three older children were mimicking flamenco dancing, to the music which was blaring from the stall piled high with cassettes full of traditional music by artistes not known to us. The feeling of wanting to dance was infectious. We looked at each other, memories of our New Year fiesta experience of skipitty hop dancing. Susan moved on quickly, recognising that look of pure mischief on my face. The stall was a delight, the brightly coloured tapestries, we had two already adorning our walls, cream and white shirts with bright trims, and the shapeless crinkled trousers to match. There were colourful dream catchers, a firm favourite with our grandchildren, allowing only the nice dreams, nasty dreams didn't dent their confidence in the dream catcher, it just meant that the feathers needed dusting. The musical instruments, reeded and again brightly coloured, lay next to the small dollies dressed in traditional costume. A new addition on the table were the cds offering tribal music, the covers displaying the names of some distant Indian tribes.

At the bottom of the field, were all the plants and trees - out came the Portuguese dictionary. The lady with heavy gold chains around her neck, frustration written on her face, as she was tried to sell a tree, barren of any leaves or fruit to a Portuguese couple who seemed intent on changing the shape of the branches, before any purchase would take place.

In between the trees was a display of farming machinery, bright red and blue tractors perched on the back of two huge lorries. Two men dressed as locals, probably father and son inspecting a small version. Shiny, bright silver churns standing in the bright sunlight almost shouting, come and buy.

The smell attacked our nostrils, chicks, ducklings, goslings packing six to a small cardboard box - whoops one nearly got away.

Small birds held in huge cages piled three high. Canaries, brightly coloured attracted the children, facinated by the colourful sight and the highly pitched chirping. So many different sounds, at different levels. Rabbits held in metal cages, all colours - some not fully grown. Chickens stuffed in containers to stop them escaping. Susan was taking pictures to show dad on our return.

A huge table, full of pulses, contained in brightly coloured, woven baskets with two handles, the shape distorted by the postion of the contents. A square wooden box, highly polished with use, dishing up the customer order into the modern polythene carrier bag. Once again another picture.

We almost fell onto our favourite stall, no local market would be complete without it. The doughnut stall, with the half baked doughnut swirl, quickly cooking in the hot oil. We waited for the attention of the old lady bent over the sugar tray. She looked up, acknowledged our presence with a broad smile and a bright greeting of "dias".
Only one euro for this delight, obrigada senhora.

Standing in the queue for the punnets of strawberries, a Portuguese senhora in front of us, was in big trouble with the trader. She was caught transfering extra strawberries into her punnet. We wouldn't dare try that, when our turn came. We selected a punnet containing bright red, luscious fruit, ready for serving on top of the whipped cream. This would complete the piece de resistance for the meal, a pavlova. Our good behaviour was rewarded by the trader placing extra strawberries into our punnet, and a nice smile for Susan from the young handsome trader. What a perfect end to a perfect morning.