Funny Fly Fishing Shirts
My Auntie Went to Fatima and All I Got Was This Lousy Tee-shirt!
It’s been awhile since I sat down and tapped out one of these articles…..
I have been a little bit busy and distracted, running around the Iberian Peninsula.
It was a wonderful, if not slightly surreal, three and a half weeks and, like every occasion when I take off to somewhere new, I learned invaluable life-lessons and aspects about myself that I previously had not realised.
For starters, I have come to sadly accept the fact that I am possibly the worst haggler in the universe (“75 Euros? Ok Mr Wise guy Street Vendor; I’ll take TWO for 150!!!”). I have also concluded that when travelling in a foreign land, it is wise to perhaps brush up on the basic essentials of the native tongue. Specifically, the basic “beverage-ordering” vernacular. I think I may have walked away from Spain leaving many a bartender scratching their heads, considering I would quite often stride into a bar and confidently bark “Un Vino Pinto Por Favor!!”
Invariably, a large glass of red would appear in front of me, so I did start to think that my Espanola was pretty crash hot. However, after a week or so of this, while dining in a restaurant in Lisbon with friends who were far more fluent, it was tactfully pointed out to me that if I wanted to order a Merlot, it was probably more prudent to say “Un Vino TINTO “.
As it turns out, the word “Pinto” does not mean red, but rather “small penis” in some dialects in Spanish.
This would explain the initial expressions of confusion on the Maître D’s face, followed a by a less than subtle smirk as he would emerge with my drink, quite often in a phallic-shaped vessel. (Note to Ford Company – this just MAY be the reason why your new compact car was not flying out of the lots in Venezuela.)
So, apart from these minor hiccups, the adventure cruised along surprisingly incident-free.
When you travel through Europe for an extended period of time, you do tend to acquire a little bit of Cathedral-Fatigue. The architecture is stunning, breath-taking, don’t get me wrong. However, after visiting approximately one thousand and eight of them, in a twenty-four hour period, you do find yourself (a little guiltily) longing to see an outdoor dunny, circa Queensland 1955…just for a change of pace.
This brings me to a funny incident in Fatima.
For those of you who know me well, I am not the most devout individual in the neighbourhood. I do suspect that a man named Jesus Christ walked the Earth at some point and he might have even performed some pretty groovy tricks to amaze the masses like feeding them lots of fish and wine (Vino Tinto perhaps?) however, there is nowhere in the Bible that says he could make a double gorgonzola and Roquefort soufflé rise successfully – which is the CONSUMATE miracle in my books.
At any rate, Fatima is a sleepy little town about an hour north of Lisbon in Portugal. It is world-renowned and welcomes hundreds of thousands of visitors every year. When you drive into the town, it doesn’t strike you as particularly astonishing. The houses are small and whitewashed and the tone of the downtown area is remarkably tame.
As I discovered, Fatima’s claim to fame is that allegedly, back in 1917, three young shepherds were standing around, minding their own business, when the Virgin Mary dropped in to deliver a message of faith and goodwill.
As you can imagine, this turn of events was probably a little bit disconcerting for the shepherds. Imagine standing in a field up to your knees in sheep dip, when a holy apparition appears from nowhere to say “G’day”. I am sure they would have appreciated some advance notice, so at least they could put the kettle on and pull out the Iced VoVos.
The Virgin Mary then proceeded to keep popping in and out for the next few months (one can only wonder if she ever chose an inappropriate time to stick her head in. “Hey!? Whoa Lady… Give me a minute…I’m just on the can here!”) And as a result, Fatima now boasts one of the most visited and revered Basilicas in the world.
The memorial is quite spectacular, even by this little agnostic’s standards. It stands before a large paved courtyard, in blinding white and gold. A large imposing crucifix, at least 3 stories high, graces the other end of the paved area, and connecting both in a square is a smooth granite walkway. From a distance, I thought I espied a large group of dwarves walking the perimeter of this concrete field, but ..r inspection, it turned out to be several people, on their knees, inching around the grounds.
The look on my face must have said it all, as one of the guides turned to me and explained “They are showing their reverence to the Virgin Mary. People travel from all over the globe to walk on their knees up and back from the monument for penance and to show respect”.
I looked again at a young woman who, from the pinched expression on her face, may well have been thinking a holiday in the Bahamas would have been a better idea, and noticed she was wearing heavy knee-pads for the stroll. The guide nudged me again and indicated to my left. There was a large sign outside a cloakroom “KNEE PAD HIRE 20 EURO”. And here I was thinking she had jumped straight off her skateboard to join in the fun.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any stranger, I passed the candle offering area – a large trough where you could purchase and burn candles for prayer. Seemed straightforward enough, until I realised that these were not your everyday candles.
None of those long, tubular white varieties here.
Suffering from a broken leg? Here! Taken one of these shin-shaped candles. Bit of indigestion lately? No worries, offer up this small intestine candle and you’ll be right in no time. I’m sorry to see you have a freakishly large nose. Light up one of these proboscis bad-boys and see what comes out in the wash. You have genital warts? I see….
Sorry, ran out of that brand at the pub last Friday night.
Funnily enough, I also failed to locate a candle to cure cynicism…
I jest, but it is quite an architectural marvel to behold, and if the sheer numbers of people who visit here every year find some comfort, then it is a worthy place.
One more thing must be said here though. ……
Apart from being one of the biggest Basilicas in the world, it ALSO boasts perhaps the biggest holy Gift-Shop I have ever seen. As part of your pilgrimage to the Basilica, you are obliged to stop in and have a browse around what can be only described as Opus Dei-Mart.
Forty-five aisles of statues of Mary, Joseph, Jesus…(and Jesus’ lesser know 2nd cousin Gary)… you can buy the pocket sized figurines to the 120 kilogram life-like models…wherever your holy mood takes you.
There were red-light specials on plastic baptismal fonts, and 50% off chocolate crucifixes (for 400 € you TOO can look like Cardinal Maximus IIIVVV in sexy purple velvet robes…sceptres sold separately). Not to be ignored were the rows upon rows of statuettes of the Virgin Mary in Caucasian, Asian and African-American appearance for every ethnic need. On your way out of the check-out there is a priest on-hand for any last minute blessings on your purchases. When he is not there (like the day we visited) there is a Do-It-Yourself-Blessing font of holy water that you can splash around willy-nilly (but preferably not on the paper copies of “Miraculous Visage of Jesus in Margarine”).
I bought a tee-shirt sporting a picture of Lord Jesus in a pair of boardshorts for my baby niece, whom I hope will appreciate the gesture …and the irony when she is a little older.
The most hilarious thing I experienced during this memorable visit was overhearing a husband and wife arguing over the fact that she wanted to send home forty pound clay set of the Nativity. When hubby complained, she snapped back indignantly “You can’t put a price on faith!”
Well…apparently you can….and it is three thousand Euros including VAT.
The Lord Almighty happily accepts VISA, MasterCard and AMEX as well….
It’s all part of the fun of travelling…..
As St Augustine aptly wrote:
The World is a book, and those who do not travel only read one page…
Tune in next time, when I’ll tell you all about a certain Moroccan in Pajamas…who bit my shoulder and called me a Communist!
About the Author
Kylie is a well travelled free-lance writer who has been published in several magazines in Australia and the United States including “Honestly Woman” and “Third Coast Marketing”.
Come on in..sit down and enjoy…bring your prescription drugs if necessary.