Vila Real de Santa Antonio

Its an hour on the local train from Faro, but that wasn't long enough to prepare me for the change of tone. All I knew of this place was what I had seen on their website, an impression of a brilliant white port bathed in bright sunshine.

As I walked into town, I remembered Maria Feliz's lament: Portugal is not rich, we have worked hard but for nothing. The most striking evidence of this was just outside the station, in the car park of the adjoining supermarket. Here were three large tents, constructed from ropes, branches and plastic sheeting, housing a family of about twelve who now stood around a roaring bonfire. The interior was carpeted with hay and the family pony was tie dto a nearby tree. A large group of stray dogs wandered in and out of the camp, alternating between fighting and mounting each other. I wanted to go and talk with the family but felt I should explore the town, so I headed towards the centre.

This is the tourist area, with cafes, wide squares, the marina, shady awnings and slightly faded clothes shops. On the way, though, I pass quite a number of derelict houses adorned with Vende-se, for sale. It looks as though some have been this way for many years. In the window of the "Erotic House" all that is displayed is a poster for information about a missing 5 year old girl called Mariluz. It appears in shop windows throughout the town and one can't help but think of the search for Madeline McCann, who disappeared just up the coast from here. The posters of this innocent face are unlikely to become the starting point of a global hunt, but despite not having the resources of the media, the police and even the Pope, I hope that the search for Mariluz is not in vain.

I turn a corner and the lighthouse beckons, I head towards it, passing lively cafes where many local sare glued to various football matches, including Egypt's victory in the African Cup of Nations. At the foot of the lighthouse is a children's park which a council sign proudly proclaims cost 77,905.10 Euros. There is a Vila Real de Santa Antonio logo at the top, perhaps another expense. The slogan at the bottom: Esta a mudar. I think it means something about change. I hope so.

Back at the station I check the train times and for a moment I think I have missed the last one. Consulting the local timetable I find I have about an hour and a half to wait. I walk out and a small boy in the gipsy camp beckons me over. I go and sit with the family, struggling to read my phrasebook by the firelight and make conversation. The boy´s name is Andre and he is holding his little brother, Dai. I give him my camera and he takes a photo, then his elder brothers take it from him and strike poses but the batteries have died. I meet David, Jose and two Luis, junior and senior. Junior is the baby and senior is 22, playing with a mobile phone. I don't learn the names of any of the women. I feel I have to record something, because if I do not tell this part of the story on the radio programme, right next to the first station, then I won't really be telling the truth. But when I take out the recorder, almost inevitably, Andre asks for if I will give it to him as a gift. "Amigos" he repeats. His family admonish him but he persists from time to time.
It is frustrating, because even with fluent Portuguese I don't think I could explain properly. The rest of the family go inside, turn on a little petrol generator and watch a small TV. After I refuse once more Andre shouts that the train is coming, I should go and ducks inside the tent. I'm angry because once again I have walked into the midst of poverty and not only failed to help but I have made things worse. I walk to the supermarket and buy some fruit and tin foil. I return with the apples and satsumas and improvise an aerial from the foil as I noticed the reception had been poor. They are watching Snake Eyes with Nicholas Cage and it is a little clearer with the new reciever. The family are grateful and walk me to the station. Luis comes inside with meand we talk a little but then he sees little Luis and his mother waiting outside so he mumbles goodbye and hurriedly leaves.

The station master and driver say they cannot talk about trains but I ask about the town. The response is not hugely positive, but in the summer they say there are lots and lots of tourists and in winter athletes come to use the running track. The train from Faro pulls in, people get off, then it moves a little further down the platform so that we can walk across the tracks to our train.

On board my first interviewees are Elders Nelson and Croshaw of teh Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. They are missionairies and we talk about their work until lteh conductor says we must stop as it is illegal. As Elder Nelson talks into the mic he punches his right hand into his left to psych himself. He is from California and Elder Croshaw is from Utah and they have been working in Vila Real de Santa Antonio for the evening, spreading the word of the Chuch and practising their Portuguese. It seems ironic that the first guys I speak to on this trip, where I will be constantly trying to converse with complete strangers, spend their lives doing the same.