Little conversations

We are in Lagos, Portugal. Coming from the far North by train and buss,

A frail road sign finally appears in hazed distance. After walking with full backpack over cobble stone roads. Passing markets, medieval walls stretch out, murals in mosaic.  Old rustic doors half fallen from their hinges. Plainly it states two words "Trindada Camping"
 
Having registered at the desk where a short tanned man hums many hmms.
"Bom dia" we say as this desk clerk only points a dark rimmed finger.
We return to this place which we formerly swore to never set foot on again. Hence many a sore night on uneven gravel with a half broken tent. A man with long dreads lends us a large family sized tent. He helps us set it up as he says he remembers us being here from before. " Its like that hotel California song here, this place" he says, "it gets to you,  yah know, though at the same time under your skin it grows. That famous line yah know, you can check out any time but you can never leave...." We all nod in agreement.
 
As we walk passed the lanes some people greet us. There is a blond German with long hair. He calls himself Viking though his friends wear motor cycle helmets and frequent 'Scheiße' springs from their blurry lips.  His wife invites us over. The blond Viking has but one sentence he seems to speak in. His wisdom of the day seems to be captured at "Its difference ! " We meet him in the nearby shop, passing by empty houses occupied by groups of people who have loads of astray pets they take care of. I try to ask him something as he replies with "yes...difference!". At least I got a "yes" out of him.
 
When we return it is getting clouded. Before we know heavy rain sets in. We gather with other fleeting ones, drop our shopping bags. We meet Carlos who knows all about gems and stones. He has adapted a habitual greeting which he exchanges    " hey guyzzzz!". He asks my partner about his necklace. He tells us that he knows places to dig up quartz. We are welcome to join him some time. Another man joins in the conversation, his eyes twinkle in the dark. Over a watery cup of coffee exchanges are displayed . A lone woman stands. at night she sings. Later we find out she just happened to be our neighbour.
We wait until rains refrain has ended.
 
A man approaches us, he bears a guitar. We vaguely remember him telling us we should not give his dog any left overs. His dog is a brown Dane and I swear this animal smiles. He can play clown while he dances and fools around with my partner. He is a savior of small birds chasing away some cats. Joe is a street musician with a good voice born in the Uk though raised in Canada. He is a great cook and bread baker though somewhat traumatized. Sometimes he invites us for meals with focaccia.
Though as profoundly his hands divide carefully cut parsley and rosemary pieces above the food bowl.  As carefully he twirls the dough and blends  all ingredients for his rich spicey marinade . As much as his heart genuinely sings. We know he sometimes is withholding his dog food and fluids. Sometimes for days, as we watch him in his nemesis shade he makes the dog come out though we know he will show the dog an empty bowl .Chaining him with a heavy leash. He calls this discipline.
 
Bushka is the brown Danes name as he sometimes rests his head on the wall inter lapping ours and the upper level of the campsite.  His dark brown eyes sink into mine. "Hello Bushka" I say to him "I see you". His ears flutter in reply. He reminds me of a tiny solemn Buddah statue in contemplation. I let him rest there. Later we see Bushka walking in town, we know there are places he can get left over food. Some other campers feed him too.
 
We cheer for him knowing he is our one great hero
 
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