Tia Fátima

Dona Fatima meets Don Monty

"I have an annex in case of Notfall".  Dona Fatima's WhatsApp message is written in Portuguese apart from 'Notfall' which is the German for emergency.  About three weeks ago we had nowhere to stay in Portugal.  Andrea, the owner of the Airbnb where we stayed in October and again in May, had kindly offered to find us somewhere and I was confident she would.  Some time ago, she contacted me about a one-bedroom house she had seen advertised on a local social media site.  I naturally had some questions and messaged her for clarification but the days went past without a response.  "It's the Alentejo.  Things move slowly," I thought.  By the time I heard back from her and contacted the owner of the house it had already gone.  "Of course," Andrea explained when I told her, "it was a very good price."  Lesson One: not everything moves at tectonic plate pace in the Alentejo.  The weeks went by and nothing was coming up from our online searches, nor any feedback from Andrea.  I was starting to get worried about being homeless on arrival.  Andrea reassured me that "something will come up," but this felt less reassuring with each day our departure approached.

In October last year, Harry and I interrailed to Portugal to see a couple of properties.  I'll probably write about that trip another time.  We had no-one to guide us around the two quintas that had made the short-list.  The estate agent had emailed "you have the co-ordinates.  Take a look and let me know if you have any questions."  It didn't feel like the hungriest agency for our business.  We arrived at the first one, inadequately dressed for the brush and over-grown vegetation.  The building was a ruin whose boundaries were difficult at times to make out.  Harry was disappointed and asked that we leave and go to see the second property.  As we approached the second farm he saw and heard dogs.  "Don't get out the car.  You don't know if the dog is aggressive."  "But we've come all this way to see the property!" I retorted.  In the end we visited two or three times on that trip and it was the on the final visit that I saw someone and tried to get some information from him.  The man was perhaps in his sixties, round, and looked very shy, mostly looking at the ground he toiled.  He was mumbly in an unfamiliar language and I couldn't make out much of what he said but two words came through clearly.  Tia Fátima.  Auntie Fatima.  Hmm, I wonder who that is...

At the start of May, Harry and I flew to Portugal to sign the contract for the quinta.  During what felt like a ceremony I looked at Mrs Fatima and wondered how she was feeling about the sale and what was running through her mind.  I felt very nervous and wondered if there might be something displeasing or upsetting in the act of her selling her land.  Then, having taken months to get to this point we hit on a problem about the energy certification of the property––it didn't have one.  Sayil, the estate agent-cum-engineer who was the intermediary between us all said it could be a problem later on.  Christ, we've come all this way and only have three days here and now it's all going to be held up for months again.  Sayil got onto his mobile and started talking to someone in an office.  I could just about follow what he was saying.  Bish, bash, bosh and about five minutes later an email or fax was sent through to the notary's office and we were all set to carry on and complete the purchase.  See Lesson One.  At another point in the proceedings when I was lost in what was being said, it transpired that additional certified copies of something or other were recommended for us to have but not included in the notary's fees.  Between them, the Portuguese-speakers had come to an understanding which they then shared with us: Dona Fatima would pay for these documents instead of buying us a coffee.  It was a lovely gesture and Harry and I expressed our gratitude.

After the deed was done (if you pardon the pun), I gravitated towards Dona Fatima.  From the promissory contract we had previously signed and sent I knew she was a widow, I had seen what I assume was her address in Germany, and her children's names, but I had nothing of her story and that of the quinta and was eager to fill in the gaps.  When I said I could speak some German she was off but left me behind.  I couldn't tell if it was my terribly rusty German or hers.  We muddled on in a mix of Portuguese and German.  When I explained we would be looking for somewhere to stay whilst renovating the house on the quinta she looked around slyly, put the fingertips of one hand together, beat them on her chest and in a hushed voice said: ich habe Platz.  I took this to translate to "I have place" and was keen to find out more.  The estate agents, notary, Fatima and we all went our separate ways but I had no means to contact Fatima.

The next day I popped into the estate agents to see if they would contact the vendor and pass on our details.  They agreed but later on we bumped into her in the street and exchange numbers.  We agreed to meet for a coffee on the Thursday.  I felt like it would be a worthwhile investment of our limited time so that we could find out a bit more about her and the property and maybe sort some accommodation whilst we were at it!  During the three-hour meeting we visited two cafeterias, heard thirty-something stories and almost visited another cafeteria where a man she knows rents room.  But the 'Platz' she had referred to before didn't come up and I didn't like to ask.  Come late June with nowhere to stay, my reservations loosened and I sent her a message along the lines of: we're leaving for Portugal in mid-July and don't have anywhere to live yet (HINT HINT) and it'll be lovely to see you.  Her reply missed my point.  It was hot and yes, it would be nice to see us and she'd met a German couple (using the feminine plural, alemãs) and they had also bought a property from Sayil and they would like to meet us.  We were no further forward with somewhere to stay.  Drat.  It was about a week later that I received the ambiguous message from her about an annex for emergencies together with a photo of a bed.  I replied asking if I could call her and after an hour on the phone I was fairly confident that she was offering us her annex to stay at until we could sort somewhere else out or until the house at the quinta was habitable.  A few days later Andrea messages to say a property has come up in Rosário, also nearby, and confirms she has secured the property for us for August.  So something did come up in the end.  Twice.

Since we arrived 48 hours ago Senhora Fatima has provided several blogs-worth of stories!  Unfortunately, she's spent so much time talking to me I haven't been able to write any of them down.

I find it strange that two such settled days can provide so much.  Perhaps it's the newness of it all.  If I get a minute to myself tomorrow I will write more.

For now, here is a lovely photo Harry took of Ichiro yesterday evening.  Fearful of the dogs in this neighbourhood (many of them outdoors on the loose), all four of us––five if you include Monty––left the immediate vicinity and, under Dona Fatima's directions, drove to a nearby location where there were no other people or dogs around.

Ichiro enjoys a walk at sunset