A lesson I learnt from WWOOFing in Portugal
By Alice Austin
It was a hot, sultry summer, the summer of Kendrick’s Humble, and I was waiting for a Canadian outside a kebab shop.
“C’mon.”
A strong Glaswegian accent.
“C’mon. He’s focking boring.”
Context: I was travelling alone in Portugal. I’d spent the last nine days volunteering on an organic farm and yoga retreat in The Algarve.
For these nine days I’d been a wholesome person who didn’t wear make-up. I’d been someone who knew that tomato plants should only be watered at their base to avoid damaging the leaves. I’d been someone who not only participated in, but enjoyed, something called ‘active meditation.’ I’d been someone who started their day at 7am by practicing Five Tibetan Chakras and I was someone whose breakfast included chia seeds and three different types of fruit. I’d spend my afternoons writing short stories in the garden and taking arbitrary dips in the pool. I would think things like I guess I’m just one of those people who doesn’t really need alcohol.
And I liked this version of me. Meditative, conscious, calm. But after a week the routine had begun to get a little bit samey. I began to think to myself You know what. Maybe I should go and explore the rest of Portugal.
Lagos was the closest town to me. Although it was a Brits-abroad party destination, I’d heard good things about it. I didn’t plan to start drinking – I just needed a change of scene to continue my new health journey. I would visit art galleries and go to the yoga studio near my hostel.
So I waved goodbye to my volunteer family and jumped on a bus. 90 minutes later I walked into my hostel in the Old Town of Lagos. A friendly man with a cockney accent greeted me.
“Allo! You coming to the BBQ and pub crawl tonight?”
“Ah, thank you but I’m not planning to come on the pub crawl tonight. I appreciate the kind offer.”
“Let me know if you change your mind!”
I took the key to my room and let myself in. Two Australian girls were getting ready to go out. “We’re going to grab a slice of pizza, do ya wanna come?”
“Oh no thank you ladies I’m going to explore by myself.” I was feeling smug, swerving the hurdles thrown in the path of my personal health journey.
That afternoon I wrote in a café for a few hours and wandered over to Lagos Cultural Center where I drank in some modern art. I thought things like I don’t really need other people to enjoy myself.
However I was a bit disappointed to find my hostel room empty when I got in. I’d spent the full day alone and was beginning to crave company. You know what, I thought to myself. You know what, maybe I’ll just go to that BBQ and duck out before the pub crawl starts.
Great, good idea. I went to the front desk and told the nice man that I would like to come along to the BBQ if that’s okay.
It was okay. Me and about 20 Aussie girls followed the cockney man through the narrow, Portuguese streets to another hostel a few minutes away.
We sat on the roof overlooking Old Town Lagos munching on hotdogs and sipping weak Sangria, deep in hostel chat. “So where were you before this?” “Where are you from?” “We’re going to Lisbon next.” “My favourite place was definitely Seville it’s just so beautiful.” “The problem with Australia is we just don’t have that much culture.”
I was sitting quite close to the communal vat of sangria and found, surprisingly, that even though I don’t need alcohol, I do very much enjoy drinking it.
2 hours later, Kendrick’s Humble was in its third play. The separate groups had formed a large circle and a drinking game had commenced. Like a fool, I’d pointed at someone with my right hand and used someone’s first name so I had to down my drink – them’s the rules. A Kiwi sitting next to me made a similar mistake and immediately downed his too. Good thing the €12 BBQ fee included unlimited sangria.
It was late June and the air felt hot even though the sun had gone down. Soon the cockney geeze started to round everyone up. “Who’s coming on the PUB CRAWL???” He bellowed. Time’s up I thought to myself. I’d made many a friend at this BBQ but I had a yoga class to go to tomorrow.
But then “COME OUT WITH US!!!” Three shit-faced Aussies suggested. Fuck it – “Okay!” I agreed immediately. About 30 of us spilled out onto the streets of Lagos, a chorus of Wonderwall took form out of nowhere. “LET’S DO A FUCKING SHOTGUN!!!” The Aussies suggested. “Okay!” I agreed immediately. We each shook a can of beer, pierced the bottom with our hostel room keys and downed them in the street.
The international mass of bodies swarmed to the first bar. A poster behind the bar read “10 reasons why beer is better than a woman.” I was incensed but free shots for everyone! I asked the woman behind the bar about the poster. She nodded over to the greasy looking bar-owner. “He’s a complete dickhead,” she said. Sounds about right, another free shot, time for the next bar!
We swarmed on to the next place, more free shots! Can’t beat a pub crawl, I thought to myself, although at this point I was beginning to feel the effect of the huge quantities of cheap alcohol I’d consumed. I scanned the bar and took a seat next to the best looking male I could see. He was from Canadia, he worked in finance and was absolutely beautiful. He didn’t have the most engaging chat but those arms, those eyes. Anyway chat didn’t matter, after a while we started dancing to the wall-to-wall bangers you’d expect to hear in a bar in Lagos.
Our pub crawl had almost doubled in size since we left the hostel. Other party goers could see how much fun we were having and joined our army. Two Scottish friends had joined ranks and as we moved on to the next bar they started chatting to me. The Canadian swiftly put his arm round my shoulder and the conversation ended.
The next bar was a bit more blurry. I remember more fluorescent shots. A packed dance floor, a lot of Beyonce. Making out with the Canadian dude, more shots, was that a fight breaking out? Nope, just someone falling over a bar stool. More shots, more making out.
Then it was 4am and the bar was closing. We piled out of the hot club and on to the mosaic street. The Canadian and I had our arms round each other, both romantic and practical as it helped keep me upright. “I need food,” he said “let’s get a kebab.” The smell of the shop made me feel sick. “I’ll wait here!” I said.
And that’s when he appeared.
“C’mon.”
A strong Glaswegian accent, hand stretched out towards me. One of the Scottish guys. He was broad and tanned and I could see his sense of humour written all over his face. It felt like I’d run into an old friend, like we’d known each other all along.
“C’mon. He’s focking boring and you know it. Ditch him and come with us.”
I thought back to where I’d been 24 hours earlier. Sleeping soundly in my bed on the organic farm. A person who knew how to water tomato plants without damaging the leaves and whose breakfast included chia seeds and three different types of fruit.
With a sigh of recognition that all the meditation retreats in the world won’t change the fact that I’m an absolute knob, I took Jason’s hand and left the Canadian in the kebab shop.
