Pousada

The faded garden...
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At the top of the hill sits the old Pousada, steeped in reminiscence of a time before independence and occupation. It recollects a colonial grandeur more than the sum of its years and paints a faded picture in its splintered window frames and doorways.

After the long climb up the winding dirt road, the traveller leans exhaustedly against the chipped stone masonry of the balustrade which leads from the garden into the dining room. Perched at the crest of the archway, an errant tinsel-town sign reads "Pousada" with letters flapping listlessly in the breeze.

The views of the mountains during the day...
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Inside, the forgotten splendour of kingsized beds, cheap table wine and Portuguese chicken by candlelight awaits, luring the imagination and feeding the fantasy. Later that day, the traveller will sit regally on the balcony, having conquered the world - and time - and toasting the sunset through wine-flecked trees and sun-dappled hills.

But it is perhaps beyond the immediate picture that the hidden meaning lies. Below the hill, winding roads squirm their way through the valley, connecting the lives that breathe the real history of this place. Though oblivious to its hum, the Pousada seems to silently stretch one arm down the hill, gesturing towards this underworld of marketplaces, gaunt ponies, desperate cockfights and townsfolk that stare with silent amazement at the strange complexions of the malais.

Toasting the sunset...
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As if to curse their luck, the young people here kick stones as they tread the dusty slopes searching endlessly for crumpled pieces of George Washington. They know the traveller comes here for the weekend as the many before have done: for leisure. When the heat of the day has subsided, the travellers' white faces finally descend, if only briefly, into their world. But somehow the two worlds never quite meet, and though crumpled paper passes from one hand to another, the stunned amazement never ceases to amaze.

The worn face of the Pousada greets the weary traveller...
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On and on, this bitter-sweet history - like the taste of cheap table wine - winds into the future, searching for a meaning that may never be known.