🇵🇹 Atlântico

Hello Adventurers,

It was troubled in paradise. The crash of a glass, either dropped or thrown. Then the arguing in Portuguese. A commotion, I instinctively look over. A starfish’d sexagenarian, all limbs pressed against an inner doorframe, his feeble resistance, fighting physical ejection from a café in the Açores.

It is daytime, early morning, a scene illuminated by the sun. The old man’s midriff is exposed. A plum potbelly like an ingrown sphere, taut and seemingly pressurised by the gaseousness of too much alcohol. He’s actually going purple in the face now, maybe from all the yelling, but more likely from asphyxiation, induced by the barman who has balled-up his hand in the back collar of the offender’s shirt, one that has been scrunched-up into a crop top. A pushy choke-out for an unglamorous walk-out. No holds barred. Ajuda.

They spill out into the street, crashing into chairs and tables, before the old man is launched towards a public bench. He hits the mark, slumps. Someone from inside the café throws the old man’s stuff outside. It scatters on the ground. The wind catches some of his papers. Be gone, they’re going.

An empath on an EV scooter slows down and stops. He tries to intervene, but the old man is having none of it. He waves him off, mutters, then lies facedown on the bench to snooze. Much of his bare ass, dislodged from the scuffle, is on full display. I hear beautiful birdsong, actually.

Groups of tourists look away, setting their eyes on the 16th century church in the public square, the one surrounded by the wonderfully-patterned volcanic cobblestones. None of the local women bat an eye…because a scene isn’t a sight if it is commonplace, right? Plus, they’re too busy opening their wooden stalls, merchandising the seasonal tea towels embroidered with the bunnies and the eggs.

I’d pass back through this same public square a few hours later, a quarter shy of noon, if that. The old man was back inside the bar, drinking, being served by the very barman who had banished him earlier. Catholic forgiveness, a core spiritual duty here. Or just a facepalm Saturday the day before Palm Sunday.

This issue of the newsletter was made across 100 hours in São Miguel, assembled piecemeal on a marathon within 140 kilometres of walks and hikes around a cooled mound of magma still simmering with lotsa marvels and miscreants.

- Ben Pobjoy

*Sent on the anniversary of the Carnation Revolution

TREK TRACKER

World by foot and/or footnotes

• Countries marathoned to date: 75

• Marathons completed this year: 14

• Kilometres trekked by foot this year: 2,139.8

• Marathons completed since 2015: 962

• Total kilometres trekked since 2015: 89,253

• Next stops wish list: Asmara, Chișinău, Taipei

RAPID RECAP

A speedy synopsis for time-crunched readers

• The Wildest Thing: The rise and fall of the topography here, never have my ears ‘popped’ so much on walks and hikes🙃

• The Biggest Obstacle: Like Iceland, I was reminded that islands in the middle of the North Atlantic have a temperature that ‘feels’ about ten degrees lower than what it actually is. Not colder, just inexplicably crisper. Furthermore, few homes in Portugal have central heating…so I was frigid the entire trip🥶

• The Lesson Learned: I came prematurely. I can only imagine how kaleidoscopic the landscape is when the gazillion hydrangeas bloom. Late June through July is supposedly the sweet spot for the magic show🤗

FIELD NOTES: ILHA DE SÃO MIGUEL, AÇORES

So it goes

The Açores are an archipelago of nine volcanic islands in Macaronesia. Said another way, they’re floating rocks in the middle of nowhere; roughly 3,900 kilometres east of North America and roughly 1,400 kilometres west of Europe. While trivial, they’re also one of two autonomous regions in Portugal, which is detectable if you’re well-versed in the mores of the mainland. In sum, they - or São Miguel, at least - present as Portuguese but are distinctly Açorean in attitude.

TBH, I came here because I had to use some ‘2025 PTO carryover’ before it expired on April 1st. Never afraid to pull the trigger on a last minute trip, I atypically fired like a fool. It is embarrassing to admit, but my imagination was aimed elsewhere, when my gun was in fact pointed at an altogether different target.

Upon arrival, I commented to the missus that São Miguel wasn’t as subtropical as I thought it would be. “Benny, I think you got your wires crossed…that’s Madeira.” Whoops, my bad!

Small in every measure, the Açores have a total population of 240,000 people. Roughly 140,000 live on São Miguel, which is the biggest island outta the nine, with 68,000 living in Ponta Delgada, being the executive capital of the Açores in São Miguel (which is where we stayed, specifically here). Now do the math and imagine how sparsely populated all the other towns and parishes are on this island, which is only 760 square kilometres in size (for comparison, São Miguel is just 100-ish square kilometres bigger than Toronto yet Toronto has nearly 25x the population).

Any guidebook and/or travel blog will suggest the same 5-10 things to do here, which I will address. But, these recommendations represent the official show. Me? I wanna get up in dem guts and see what’s happening backstage. Plus, São Miguel is encircled by 225 kilometres of craggy, crusty coastline. Irresistible to exploit for adventure, I used it as a corridor to get to as many tiny villages as I could by foot. Seeing locals in their locales. It’s the mission, always.

Little lizards sunbathing then scattering, me meowing at the stray cats living among the black, blistered, and serrated volcanic rocks along the rough and choppy waters, one church always off in the distance, every town with the império for the cult, labourers, fishermen, the processing plants where fresh catch is processed and boats are mended, the single storey terracotta telha-topped shoebox homes - snug and conjoined - on the tight, winding, and undulating streets. And the house windows you pass by, where the lookie-loos are always watching, especially if you ain’t a townie.

Patriarchal. Traditional. Dated and frustrated. Where old women semi-camouflaged by sheer curtains peer at the street from behind window frames, young women stand in doorways tending to children, the occasional boy does child labour on a roof or in a work yard, and men of all ages do body-battering work on land and water, which - may be why, in part - they self-medicate with Sagres, Super Bock and/or that brown aguardente moonshine in the fly-infested cafés. But, a people together, bantering and bickering, with no one glued to their phone, ever.

North America suffers from a deficit of colour. Not here. The stucco exteriors - perfectly smooth and impeccably straight, from truly masterful craftsmanship - are painted in glorious colourways: mustard with emerald, red with pink, two-tone blues, etc. It is a full spectrum that makes your eyes smile, further elevated by the burst of even more colour provided by the small panels of religious tiles near front doors.

But, all over São Miguel, you see the desaturating creep of tourism, where many of the old colourful homes are in the process of being newly renovated into ubiquitous white modernist structures: no colour, no azulejo. The Catholic signs go down as the signs of commerce go up. The telltale sign is literally the glass sign on the front wall of a lodging, being the legally-mandated ‘AL’ sign to denote Alojamento Local, which translates into ‘Local Accommodation’ aka short-term rental. The squeeze is on, now more than ever.

Here, it represents a new chapter in a centuries-old problem: cards stacked against locals. Opportunity is minimal, wages are low (by EU standards), all consumer goods are hella pricey (because they’re imported from afar), housing supply is limited, and the latter is being gobbled up by international demand which drove prices up nearly 20% last year alone. The conundrum is consequential: resulting in voluntary ejection or involuntary dejection.

So, becoming a migrant is a survival tactic. Long has. And why most speak English. Because many go to the new world for the new money, often to Toronto or New Bedford, electing to labour abroad so they can one day afford to exist back home. “Açoreans? They work their asses off! They work like dogs…hungry…never complain,” said my Portuguese wife’s uncle, forever impressed by the tireless work ethic of the Açoreans he has laboured alongside and/or employed back in Canada.

The double whammy is that the Açores have long served as a strategic mid-Atlantic logistics base for international drug traffickers, particularly cocaine smuggling. It remains a record-breaking industry. Far from enriching the locals, hundreds of kilos of cocaine actually washed up ashore at the turn of the last millennium, ushering in an addiction crisis, which tend to fester in places where hope and opportunity are in short supply. Read more about it here or head to Netflix for the documentary or the television series. Pick your poison.

The aftermath remains visible today: from vagrancy to roaming junkies to me seeing a combo of the two by way of observing some guy getting domed by a sex worker in a parked car in broad daylight. The mouth wipe with the back of the hand, the quick exit from the passenger-side door, the scamper along the beaten path into some break in the foliage to who-knows-where…

Now humour me, because I’m showing restraint in this dispatch. While liberal with words about people, I’m being conservative with photographs depicting place, because the latter would be a disservice to you, functioning as a spoiler. In fact, this is a device I’m employing to stomp a paradox: that São Miguel is astoundingly beautiful, despite the human casualties.

The lush green grasses, the chirping bids, the vibrant flowers, the rise of the jagged cliffs, the infinite cows in fields or them just standing around in makeshift lots among homes, the sun rays piercing through dense clouds (and how this changes the colour of the ocean by the second), the mesmerising views from lookouts (this spot is a cheat code for a vista atop some fascinating stairs), the bosomy curvature of ridges, having your mind blown by the calderas…how much time do we have?

This place is God’s canvas. Visit. See it to believe it, because no picture does it justice.

The crime of my visit is that I don’t eat seafood, let alone anything animal. However, I’d be remiss not to mention the Arroz Malandrinho that my wife ate (twice!) at Louvre Michaelense. One spoonful in and her eyes fluttered with delirium, rolling back into her head. Something about Grandma’s cooking, something about roasting the shells, something about the barracuda it was topped with. She also vouched for the home-style cooking here.

While on the topic of things to do in Ponta Delgada, I’ll hit it quick: this is the spot in the must-visit traditional market from which to buy the famed local soft cheese and the prized tinned fish, this free botanical garden rules (for the one tree with the ginormous serpentine trunk, the other tree from which massive broom-like growths hang from, and for how the locals were throwing their coats at wildlife to try and casually catch feral white Muscovy Ducks with the red caruncles as well as the Red Junglefowl), this department store is the Portuguese Temu for the housewares as well as the knock-off Ronaldo kit, and the pineapple plantation is worth a quick visit…simply to show it some respect, because it takes ‘em two years to grow the fruit to maturity by smoking it.

Other than that, just try to avoid fifty-something Carlos along Rua Machada dos Santos at 7AM. That’s when he’s leaving the bar from the night before, and uses a snatching handshake to try a steal a kiss then pull you towards his place. It’ll be fun he promises.

São Miguel is about 65 kilometres long by 16 kilometres wide. This means you can drive anywhere in half an hour. Most of the drives are scenic, all the switchbacks are fun. But, if I came here solo, I wouldn’t have booked a car. Too small. Instead, I would’ve just walked around the entirety of the island and slept in different towns each night. But, with the missus in tow, we got a car to do vacation-y things together.

IMHO, the stand-out lil road trip was the jaunt over to Furnas, a small and truly picturesque village nestled deep in a valley full of geysers, hot-springs, and fumaroles. The initial plan was to hit the free public hot-spring for a dip along a lovely promenade. However, upon arrival it required a road-side change into bathing suits…for a foot bath that flowed directly into a hot tub enclosure made out of stacked rocks in a waterway.

I’d have hit the bath if it were just me, but concluded on sight that my wife deserved something nicer than the liquid toe jam cascade (because she can’t swim…so I’m super mindful about ensuring that when she gets into water, it be pleasant and safe). As such, we tried to hit the fancy privé bath but it was closing in 15 minutes…and I nah’d it on the spot which irked my wife (but, in my defence, who wants eight minutes in a bath anyway?).

To redeem myself, I drove us to the Parque Natural da Ribeira dos Caldeirões and we lucked out: there was a nice waterfall 100 metres from the parking lot, the landscaping was delightful (the wife dubbed it Smurf Village), there was a gift shop where Christine bought fridge magnets of family crests (for her multiple surnames), and a café from which I espresso’d, hacked a dart, and realised I could book a soak online for us at another thermal bath back in Furnas.

So we backtracked to Poça da Dona Beija. And I’m glad we did! Sitting in the 40℃ waters for well over an hour, as the sun set, was a vibe. And the waters weren’t too fart-y in their sulphurous odour, so you need not worry about smelling like a boiled egg on your exit.

An aside, but the missus nearly divorced me one afternoon a few years back in Morocco, hours before I would formally ask her to be my wife (with me popping the question at a Bedouin camp in the desert that evening). Anyhoo, I had used WhatsApp to sign us up for some loosey-goosey tour that didn’t have a clear itinerary. And part of that tour was a fairly technical hike up a mountain pass. Christine was convinced I knew beforehand, that I was trying to pull a fast one on her (because this type of thing is my jam), but I honestly didn’t know shit about the details (as evidenced by the other tourist in our group that was unfortunately wearing flip-flops for the impromptu hike). But, I never forgot how it made Christine feel, because I want the outdoors to be enjoyable to everyone, no matter one’s level of fitness.

So, on this trip, I insisted that Christine choose a hike for us that was solely agreeable to her. And she chose well. We parked in a free lot here (ignoring the time limit and not getting ticketed), which is right beside the lookout point overlooking two volcanic crater lagoons: Lagoa Verde and Lagoa Azul, respectively. Stunning stuff, full stop. You’ve likely seen ‘em in any advert for the Açores.

Before we set off, I explored the abandoned hotel across the street (I coulda spent hours there). Then, we took the unmissable path that arcs northwest / clockwise from the lookout down to Sete Cidades below. I think the walk was longer than Christine expected, but I would like to believe it was worth it: a spectacular panorama ridge along a crest. At left, the land sloped downwards into the ocean. At right, the massive cauldrons, full of water, from volcanoes that had collapsed inward on themselves eons ago. Eight or so easy kilometres of walking downhill, ending in a little town.

The outcome was one LULZ, in two parts. First, Christine’s hope that we could fetch a rideshare service - in the western corner of the island, 25 kilometres from the city centre - to get back up to our car. Second, the townie cabbie who allegedly drives tourists back up to the parking lot, obviously nowhere to be found.

I humoured it all, despite knowing how it’d ultimately play out. Meaning, I handed my wife a meat and cheese sandwich from my backpack, told her to post up, and went to retrieve our whip by foot. My options were to take the slower eight kilometre-long route we had just trekked or a faster four kilometre-long trail with 1,000 feet of ascent up the volcano.

Google Maps estimated the latter would take an hour, but I knew that if I cranked on a few cigs, I could open up my lungs and get ‘er done in twenty minutes, give or take. So, I hauled ass up the shorter-but-steeper trail. It was a blast. Technical and challenging. Basically, this specific “trail” doubles as nature’s run-off for transporting rain down to the calderas. In many parts, the trail had been unevenly hollowed out by the flow, becoming a four feet deep crevice backfilled with an array of big, loose rocks. In another critical section, the trail was impassable, having fully collapsed in on itself, becoming a 100 foot drop into a big, deep, wide hole. To pass, I could either grab at the frayed roots of plants and trees along a death ledge beside the former trail or freestyle rock climb up a wall of mud to get over the hole, over to where the trail picked back up. Choose your adventure! I won’t tell you what I chose…because I don’t wanna be liable for a dangerous recommendation.

“Baby, fuck off!” voiced at me, in my final interaction with a local the morning we departed. The missus needed a coffee so we pulled into Vila Franca do Campo, hitting a café beside a public square. She went in as I paid for parking. Then she exited fairly quickly. So, I tried to give my parking slip - which was still good for an hour - to a driver that had just pulled into a spot in front of mine. Offered as a nicety to save him from having to fork-out dosh. Big mistake. My gesture inexplicably pissed off the driver which caught the attention of some stranger who approached me shouting. Some geezer across the street stopped, simply to shoot me a dirty look. Something collectively lost in translation? Dunno. I laughed it off, trying to forget what Mark Twain had wrote about the lot of them in Innocents Abroad, a book published in 1869.

But, ignore it all, save for the sunsets here. Mosteiros, it’s what I’ll choose to remember. The black beach there, the gurgling sound of the white foamy water over the black sand. Serenity. Below the cliff. The surfers catching waves. The rock formations out in the water, the light, the clouds, the colours.

I nudged the wife to FaceTime it all to her Mum, a Portuguese mainlander who has never been to these parts. “Oh, filha, it’s sooo beautiful…” Aida confirmed. A statement undeniable.

BEST LOCAL THING-Y

Fabio said he’d never left the island, said he’d been sober eight years too. Told me this as he was drinking a beer at 8AM while regaling me with laboured stories of his migrant years in France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Rewind.

On the approach, Fabio was standing in the middle of the street, both arms extended outwards like a Christ without a cross, yelling at a café. “Call the cops, they’ll never find me!”

A gruff throaty laugh, like he was in on his own joke.

Then he walked about four doors down, placed his beer on a windowsill, locked eyes with me, fumbled with the keys, and let himself into a house.

A neighbour as nuisance.

Interest piqued, I went into the café to order an espresso, where I presume it was Linda working the counter. Quiet, nothing out of the ordinary. Old men sitting around tables, a standing woman serving them all. A TV in an alcove playing something.

She put the saucer on the countertop, before adding a spoon, a pack of sugar, and the demitasse. “The patio is open, you should go enjoy the view.” Nodded, sipped the Delta deliciousness, and exited perplexed. There was but an awning out front. But, then I noticed the white gate on the white wall across the street.

I walked over, feeling watched.

A lock unlatches, fast footsteps heard over my shoulder, suddenly Fabio along with his bottle of beer. Me and him, now together on a weathered patio questionably fastened to a cliff, one with an unquestionably glorious view of the ocean.

I can’t say we talked, because Fabio just talked at me, about nine inches from my face: said he was a genius, had an ADHD diagnosis, thought he was autistic, confirmed his son had “second-generation real autism,” shared he’d been an addict, admitted the drugs had taken some of his teeth. But, the teeth looked to be all there.

*If tea and tranquility are your thing, you might prefer this.

POBJOY'S GLOBAL PRICE INDEX

This is an on-going documentation of how much things cost in different places around the world. Here are some of the things I bought around Ilha de São Miguel (all prices converted to USD):

• 17.11 litres of petrol from a gas station in Vila Franca do Campo: $32.29

• One 1.5L bottle of water, Two 330ml cans of soda, one 200g bag of trail mix, and one 400g can of baked beans in tomato sauce from a grocery store in Ponta Delgada: $7.05

• A veggie burger with fries, A beef burger with fries, onion rings, two pints of beer, and one 330ml bottle of sparkling water from a restaurant in Ponta Delgada: $42.33 (no tip, it isn’t customary here)

• 250ml bottle of beer and a king size pack of 20 smokes from a café in Lagoa: $6.11

MARATHON MUSINGS

On the merits of nowhere in particular

Wife asleep, I went for a walk. Just westward, vibing it out, no destination in mind. But, occasionally glancing at the clock to ensure I’d be able to get back to the flat to align my return with the missus waking up.

My steps. Pitter-patter. Past this, past that. Until eureka, the spotting of a universal sign. A yellow line painted atop a red line. A trail marker on a wooden post. This specific marking? It means ‘right way’ or ‘straight ahead’ depending on your interpretation. The path to my left. Why not?

It started simple, but got steep quickly. Falling downwards hundreds of feet towards the ocean, getting narrow and zigzagging because of the grade. Cows on a cliff pasture, the occasional plot where somebody was growing something, two men carrying fishing rods, a cave full of empty beer bottles.

Sweating, legs shaking involuntarily now. So sloped, in parts, that rocks had been half-embedded into rough patches of concrete. Traction for footing. My quads were firing, felt like only a matter of time before my feet gave out from underneath me. How the hell do you get down this thing in the rain?

Rounded a bend, phew, it evens out. Flattens. A marvellous discovery waits at the end. But, I won’t tell you where exactly. Rather, I just encourage everyone to get lost. That’s where the greatest findings are to be found.

A row of handmade houses like a micro colony along a dirt path. No hermetic statements, not off-grid, just living here at water’s edge. Homes made from volcanic rocks, outdoor stone ovens in yards, no roads in, no streets, no cars, but a few dirt bikes leaning against wobbly walls. Everything brought down somehow, made here or assembled on the spot, things refashioned into other things, with whatever’s available. The refuse removed by the horse.

Imperfectly perfect. All of it. Prolly the best thing I’ve seen in, well, forever.

When driving in São Miguel, you can pass a town in the blink of an eye. Slow down, pull over. The main thoroughfares are set on the flatter parts. They’d be too costly to build otherwise. But, beyond the grade? That’s where the good stuff is.

Descend by foot into the labyrinths. It is where I found the best of the Açores to be.

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