with us: A Wrinkle In Time

Consolacao, population: "very small".

We've been in this sleepy sea-side village for a week now, with another week to go.

Walks have been trodden, books have been read and swims have been swam? But what's great about sitting still in a place for some time is it all starts to make sense.

I now know which counter to stand at the local bakery/cafe/restaurant if I want to be served freshly baked bread rolls, and how if I stand 30cm to the left I won't be served.

How the ocean is not there to be swam in, rather admired from afar while lounging in a deck chair and often topless (even the women). Better still, sit on a rock, not on the sand.

How, if I need help with anything, the local supermarket is the place to go.

The toot which rings through the neighbourhood at 9.30 every morning is the local fish seller. Run, and you might catch te catch of the day.

If in doubt, always opt for the custard tart.

And best of all, coffee is best served as an espresso shot. Fresh and delicious.

But then there's things I'm yet to figure out.

Like why no one smiles. Everyone here keeps to themselves, no friendly hellos on the street. But then if you get talking, they're always very helpful, and smile.

Or why at 10.30 on Sunday morning a parade of fairly crappy motorcycles ambled down the main street.

Or, let's face it, why the majority of the holiday population of Consolacao choose to sit on a rock face to sunbath rather than on the sand.

Maybe in the next week all will become clear. But I somehow doubt it; there's a mystery to this place which I don't think I will ever be able to truly make sense of.

And maybe my vocabulary will extend beyond obrigado. Though of all the words to know, it's a pretty good start. It at least gets a smile, or two.

The main street. In all its Sunday bustle.