Today we
decided to take a road trip around the western half of the island. We had our
first taste of driving yesterday and learned two things: Madeira is very hilly
and the integrated GPS on our car is an absolute piece of rubbish. Today, we
would confirm both points.
Our first
target for the day was Cabo Girao, an extremely high lookout point with a glass
skywalk you can stand on and look straight down 580 metres to the ocean below.
Five minutes after driving away from the apartment into the chaotic streets, we
realized we had forgotten our little internet machine, but decided we couldn’t
bear turning back so would rely on the car GPS. Bad move. I tried to find the
Cabo Girao but it didn’t appear on the GPS search so I put in an approximate
address, and the GPS led us into the greasy guts of a nearby village, passing
locals with their wide open stares, making turn after turn as the GPS directed
us, laughing, and eventually we ended up wedged into a street (pathway) that
was just wide enough for the car to fit into if we folded both side mirrors in,
which we did. I noticed copious amounts of car paint smeared onto the walls on
both sides, so I slowly reversed out of the trap, managing to avoid scraping
the car, and then pulled over to collect my thoughts and figure out our next
move, while letting my red-hot firing nerves settle for a moment. Far ahead I
saw a tourist bus, so I rammed it into gear, caught up to him and followed him
closely, assuming he must be going to the same place we were trying to get to.
That assumption proved correct, but three quarters of the way up the steep
mountain we hit clouds, and by the time we got to the top the visibility was
down to 25 metres at best, just enough to see the dozens of tourist busses
lined up in the parking lot, and the endless stream of tourists walking around
in the dense fog, like high altitude ants, taking senseless pictures of grey
moisture. We took a pass on this one and headed back down the other side of the
mountain, following a different tourist bus with Blandy Travel stamped on the
side. We continued down an endless series of switchbacks, braking until I
smelled them, and then resorting to a downshifting strategy, stressing out the
poor clutch.
Our mystery
guide led us to the town of Ribeira Brava and we found a parking spot so we
could check the place out. It was a cute little village, on the ocean, with a
shopping area and several cafes on the water. Down here at sea level the sky
was mainly clear, and the sun was slowly starting to heat up. We began by
walking up an interesting looking and steep path on a side street. The path was
built with poured concrete, but then small, apricot shaped rocks were placed
evenly in the concrete to create a grippy surface for ascending, not to mention
a bit of free reflexology for your feet if you weren’t wearing shoes. The path
led up to a mountain road and afforded a stunning view over the town.
We returned
down the path and browsed through the shops. I found a gorgeous sweater for 30
euro that was going to work well as protection against the nasty freezing rain
and sucky snow we’re still getting back at home. We continued down the cobbled
streets, when suddenly I heard a horrible noise. A terrifying noise. A noise
that has haunted my dreams for years, and somehow follows me around the world.
What was this noise you ask? Peruvian flutes. I fucking hate Peruvian flutes. I
first heard live Peruvian flutes 15 years ago back in Peru, and I really hated
them, but I think a lot of people must like them because since then I’ve heard
Peruvian flutes in practically every country we’ve travelled to. The Peruvian
government has been running a secret cloning programs since the mid 70’s and
they have perfected the technique using humans. The first truly successful
Peruvian flute band on a global scale were called “The Poverty Stricken
Peruvian Flute Band from Peru” and they had a regular weekly gig at the Mall of
the Americas in San Juan, Puerto Rico. The band of four would wear their
traditional Peruvian clothes and toques and earn 20 and sometimes up to 30 US
dollars per day from the tourists passing by, flipping coins into their flute
cases instead of into the magical wishing fountain in the middle of the mall.
The Peruvian government became aware of their success and came up with a
brilliant plan; they would clone the members of this band and deploy the clones
around the world to earn hard currency and make remittances back to the
motherland. So that’s what they did. And that’s why today you will see a
Peruvian flute band in every single cheesy tourist area around the globe, and
you’ll think “Man, those guys look and sound exactly like the ones I saw in
Disneyland last year and, come to think of it, exactly the same as that other
Peruvian flute band I saw in Covent Garden in London the year before it.
Weird!”
Well, it’s
not weird, it’s just science.
Anywho, I
stuck my pinkies in my ears and ran right by the clones and over to a cafe well
out of earshot and ordered a decaf coffee and pastel de nata, which wasn’t
nearly as good as the ones in the Azores. The rest of the gang joined me for
drinks, and we played cards at the table until the wind started blowing them
all over the place. By then, our parking time was running out and the fun level
was waning, so we returned to the car and headed north across the island for
Sao Vicente.
Here, we
found a sign pointing to the “Grutas”, which means caves, and the Olson family
just loves their caves. This type of cave was new for us as it was a volcano
lava tube where the hot lava flowing down the volcano cools on the outside
while the hotter lava continues to flow on the inside, all the way down to the
sea, eventually emptying out the tube, leaving a long, tunnel-like cavern. The
entire tour lasted an hour and yes, it was touristy, but still pretty good. For
some reason they had rigged up the cave to stream music, but instead of piping
in the theme music from Indiana Jones at maximum volume, they were playing this
ultra-tranquilo, barely audible, hypnotizing classical music. Since most of the
tourists had at least 20 years on us, I’m thinking they used this to
tranquilize the touristos and prevent anybody from having a claustrophobic spaz
attack in the narrow tunnel. One member of our tour group did sustain an injury
however. He was very tall and capped his noggin on a piece of jagged lava rock
and had blood pooling on his skull, getting all mixed in with his grey hair.
But he bravely went on, after the tour guide told him if he didn’t then he’d
have to backtrack by himself to the entrance. He didn’t want to be all by
himself in a lava tube cave.
At the end
of the tour we had a chance to make a wish at an underground cavern pool. My
life is currently damn good, so I just wished for a delicious lunch.
We returned
to the car and the road lead us westward across the north coast. The views
looking out over the angry sea were gobsmacking, but I was equally impressed by
the amazing engineering work and imagination it must have taken to create such
roads, bridges and tunnels through an intensely inhospitable environment. There
was also an old coastal road, which was meant to be quite terrifying to drive,
but sadly it was closed, so I didn’t get to put my family’s safety seriously at
risk.
We reached
Porto Muniz at the furthest point north-west and stopped for a mediocre lunch (that
wishing pool was a hoax!), but a great look at the massive surf and waves
crashing into the shoreline. They had an area of natural pools, but they looked
to be not yet open for the season, anyway you’d have to be suicidal to go
swimming in there now as you would get mashed up on the rocks in no time and
lived the final moments of your life dropping down into the blue depths,
watching the lapas clams stuck to the rocks, wound up with bunches of pale
green sea grass as you sink down to your watery grave. That’s no fun.
The sad, sad
GPS took us through a few wrong turns, but eventually we sniffed out the way up
over the mountain to round the coast and start working our way back to Funchal.
At altitude, we hit thick clouds and rain and strangely there were no tourist
busses to follow, or any other cars, and the further we went, the fewer signs
of civilization appeared, and we were soon in the middle of a Stephen King movie
where we were all alone on the road, trapped by clouds, surrounded by monsters
in the mist, hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst. At times, there would
be a small break in the clouds, and I’d catch a momentary glimpse of what
looked like the thick leg of a giant spider, spooking me out, until I realized
they were wind turbines, planted right beside the road. We seemed to be passing
through a high altitude plain, as the forested had dwindled to nothing and left
only flat ground and scarce patches of wet grass.
A roadblock
appeared ahead of us with a big dead-end sign, but the roadblock covered only
our lane. Since there were no other roads nearby and the ones we had passed
didn’t look like they connected to anything, we passed around the blockade and continued.
As we drove, we saw that large rocks had fallen from above and had accumulated
in the opposite lane, making the path rather treacherous in the thick fog. We
drove for 10 kilometres and then finally hit a full roadblock, forcing us to
turn back, retrace our path, avoid the rocks, and take the next exit heading
south.
The road was
narrow and started leading us down twists and curves, in steep decline, but
hopefully towards the coast. Then as quickly as we’d entered the clouds, we
were out of them, and the bright sun shone down on us, giving us a glorious
view of the sea to the south. We continued all the way and thankfully made it
back to a main road, and drove east, passing through several villages, on the
way to Funchal. We hit the village of Ponta do Sol and were struck by the sheer
quantity of banana trees - they were literally sprouting out of every, single
available patch of earth. Here’s a trivia question for you: how many bunches of
bananas will a single banana tree produce in its lifetime? The answer? Exactly
one. After that, the full-grown banana tree is cut down and one of the children
plants that sprout from it is left to take its place.
The last six
minutes of our drive home were hairy. As we were driving down one of the main
roads into the centre of Funchal, the GPS demanded we immediately turn left, so
I turned (foolishly) right into the oncoming traffic of the one-way street. I
reversed out, spun the car, and continued back down the street and took the
next left instead. The stupid GPS caught up and, after one or two blocks, told
me to take the right exit straight up this incredibly steep street; so steep in
fact, that I needed to rev up the car as fast as it would go to gather up
enough momentum to take us to the top. I expected it was taking me in the wrong
direction, but I didn’t have any better ideas, so I held my breath and drove
like Mario. As we rounded the top, I couldn’t see any street ahead of me,
because this street went straight back down, but even steeper than the ascent,
giving us the sensation of a world class rollercoaster. The best part was that
I was faced with a yield sign at the top, but by the time I realized it all
four wheels were off the ground and the Dukes of Hazard song was playing, so we
soared right by it and landed ever so smoothly on the downward slant, like a
champion ski jumper, barely missing the cars miraculously parked on both sides
of the street (European emergency brakes are obviously engineered to the
highest standards). I squealed to a stop at the uncontrolled intersection at
the bottom of the hill and then proceeded left for half a block right to our
gate entrance, where there was already another car ahead of me on his way in to
steal my parking spot. As he waited for the automatic gate to open I scooched
in behind him and waited. Then he bolted up the driveway and, since the gate
was wide open, I followed him, but as I passed, the red and white striped arm
of the safety barrier began its decent, aimed precisely for the hood of my car.
My animal brain kicked into gear and I slammed the car into reverse, pounded
the gas, popped the clutch, and lurched backwards into the traffic, with my
wide-eyed children screaming and shitting their pants in the back seat. I think
Ana was in shock because she wasn’t saying anything, and that’s very abnormal.
I rammed the brakes inches before impact and fortunately all the pedestrians
had already seen the rental car sticker in the back window of my car and leaped
out of the way. I fished the gate card out the console with my longest
fingernail, held it up to the sensor, and watched as the dangerous arm lifted
back up to let me pass, and pass I did, with wheels torqueing like mad to get
up the steep driveway. How happy was I when a single empty parking spot was
available! I drove the car past the spot, slammed the brakes and ordered
everybody out. My weary, shell-shocked passengers bounded out of their seats
and jumped clear of the car before I rammed it into reverse and squeezed the
little Clio into the parking spot, like a pro, with inches to spare on either
side. It was a fine bit of piloting if I do say so myself.
