The camp-site-slash-yoga-resort was situated down a bumpy dirt track at what felt like the end of the earth. Flocks of bright white storks strutted on red legs across the neighbouring farmland. Dogs trotted inquisitively down the centre of the road. A white banner stamped with a huge cross-legged yogi flapped in the gentle breeze as they drew up in the car park late afternoon.
Jack got out of the car, took his sunglasses off, had a look around and went, ‘Where the hell are we?’
Wind-chimes tinkled in towering pines. Rows of squat little palm trees lined the walkway like giant pineapples.
Amy got out. ‘I can smell incense.’
Gus got out after her. ‘It’s like my teenage bedroom.’ He leant forward and inhaled the smell of one of the incense sticks jabbed in a palm tree trunk. ‘Although here it’s probably not to mask copious amounts of weed.’ He glanced at Moira who was climbing out of the huge SUV with the kids. ‘Having said that …’
Moira refused to meet his eye. She was saved by the arrival of a grey-haired man tanned the colour of a walnut and dressed in purple tie-dye, clearly born from the same mould as Mitch. He greeted them with a hands-together, head-bowed ‘Namaste’, as they trooped through a lattice archway that marked the entrance to the camp site.
Stella watched her mother bow back. ‘Namaste,’ she said.
‘What are you saying?’ Stella asked with a bemused frown.
‘It’s a yoga greeting.’ Her mother’s tone was a little uppity.
‘What does it mean, Moira?’ Jack asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Moira said, and stalked into the little entrance cabin following the man in the tie-dye with a dismissive toss of her hair.
Stella, Jack, Amy and Gus exchanged a smirk.
Moira stood at the desk pulling printouts of their booking from her bag, her lurid sportswear a sharp contrast to the weather-beaten hut with its wooden veranda and scorched palm trees.
‘Ahh, the friend of Mitch,’ the man said, his hands aloft as he spoke. ‘Our home, his home, your home.’
Moira blushed.
‘I am Vasco. Come.’ He grabbed some keys on plastic lotus flower fobs from the wall, and led them all out into the piercing Portuguese sunshine.
They wheeled their various cases over the bumpy arid path. Sonny rested his big sports bag on his head. Rosie kept dropping hers to the floor moaning about how heavy it was. All around them the rising hiss of cicadas felt like the sound of the sun burning down. Every few steps a gust of wind swirled dusty tumbleweeds along the scorched red earth. To their left were the campervans. People with their feet up, reading the paper under awnings with cups of coffee in tin cups and dogs lying weary from the heat. To their right was a slope of desert-esque shrubs; cacti, prickly pears, and giant agaves with fleshy green leaves graffitied with carvings of people’s names. The land was barren. The earth creaked with thirst.
Rosie stopped midway and wailed, ‘I’m too hot.’
‘Come on, Rosie,’ Stella called, sweat dribbling down her forehead. ‘We’re nearly there. Give me your bag.’
But Rosie would go no further. ‘My legs are tired.’
Vasco paused. ‘Problem?’
They all stared towards Rosie, sitting in a heap in the dust.
Vasco smiled. ‘The heat is too much for the little ones.’ And walking back to Rosie scooped her up and onto his shoulders.
Sonny broke into a fit of giggles at the look of horror on Rosie’s face. ‘All right, Rosie?’ he shouted. But her expression morphed quickly to delight as Vasco strode happily to the front of the group once again, charging up the incline ahead, nimble as a gazelle.
Gus watched, stunned. ‘Maybe I should start doing yoga? I’m not sure I could get Rosie up on my shoulders that easily. He must be what? Fifty? Sixty?’
‘Seventy-one,’ Vasco bellowed.
Gus, surprised he’d been so readily understood, called back, ‘Impressive.’
‘You want to be strong? You join me for sunrise yoga in the morning,’ Vasco shouted.
‘What time?’ asked Gus.
‘4 a.m.’
Gus snorted.
‘Yes?’ said Vasco, stopping at the crest of the slope and depositing a giggling Rosie on the ground.
‘Maybe,’ Gus said, unconvinced.
‘These are your homes,’ said Vasco, as they all stopped next to him. Sonny chucked his bag to the ground, panting.
Side by side, shaded by three looming eucalyptus, were nestled two wooden huts. They looked to Stella like homes for Rosie’s Sylvanian Families – tiny slated boxes with neat little windows and three-step stairways leading to a narrow veranda, all pale lime-washed timber with a white sail-cloth roof that sucked back and forth in the wind. Strips of tree bark curled on the ground like crocodiles. A crow scratched at the surface of a long wooden picnic table. The air smelt sweet of warm wood, the sharp tang of eucalyptus, and sea salt drifting on the breeze.
‘Very cosy,’ said Gus as Vasco led them up the steps of one hut and inside, pointing out the basics of the kitchen living room, the fridge, the candles, the matches, the tiny toilet and shower, and the two bedrooms, separated by canvas. One with twin beds almost touching, the other with a little double.
‘Anything you need,’ Vasco said, jogging away down the steps. ‘I am at the reception. Or I am over there.’ He pointed into the distance where, past a few more huts and a couple of yurts, there was a huge concrete square. A group of people were mid-yoga, arms stretched high into the air, and behind them was a wide expanse of bright cerulean sea.
‘Wow,’ said Stella. Vasco grinned with pride and handed them all a copy of the yoga timetable before jogging to join the group on the stage.
They were all standing in various spots of their new abode. Gus watching Vasco still, saying, ‘I can’t believe he’s seventy-one,’ to no one in particular. Moira avidly studying the timetable. Jack was inspecting the construction of the hut, Stella was opening and closing cupboards having a look, while Rosie and Sonny fought over who got which bed.
Amy stomped out of the second hut and said, ‘The sleeping arrangements won’t work. Where’s Mum going to sleep?’
Stella poked her head out of her hut, exhausted from the heat and the journey. She knew immediately what Amy’s problem was but wanted to just gloss over it, unable to face a tantrum. ‘She can have the double and you and Gus can have the twin.’
Amy gave Stella a death stare. ‘I’m not sharing a room with Gus.’
‘Oh come on, Amy,’ Gus pitched in. ‘It’s not my dream either but aren’t we beyond this? I have absolutely no interest in you and you don’t have any in me. We’re just two adults sharing a room.’ He raised his hands like ‘where’s the problem?’
Stella watched Amy stumble for a reply. She looked momentarily baffled by Gus’s response. The frankness too much for her. As if it wasn’t his place to publicly reject her as harshly as she rejected him.
Moira came over. ‘What’s the problem?’
Amy wouldn’t say anything.
Stella sighed. ‘Amy doesn’t want to share a room with Gus.’
Moira frowned, examined the set-up, then, as if the possible configuration had just dawned on her, said, ‘Oh darling, I’m not staying with you. I have my own little yurt, further up the hill.’
‘Why?’ asked Stella, confused.
‘Just for a bit of privacy.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Stella, darling, this may come as a surprise but it’s a bit of a treat for me – being on my own. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ Moira waved the timetable as she started wheeling her snazzy little case up the path, ‘I have a session of Jivamukti Yoga to prepare for.’
Stella watched her mother, arms crossed, from the veranda, wishing she too could have reached a point where she could take all this in her stride.
Amy stomped off into the hut. ‘I’m having the double bed.’
Gus exhaled, shaking his head. ‘Whatever you like.’ The limits of his good humour finally breached.