Beginning with “Tavira • Orange”… I’m submitting this series of images I made in the small fishing village of Tavira, Portugal in October of 2003. The intention is to paint a broader stroke with a series and companion prose to convey more a sense of overall texture and “place”.
I hope you enjoy this series as much as I enjoyed creating it.
(Tavira • Orange)
I’d just left Seville and decided to stop off for a couple days in Portugal’s tail end. After a good nap on the bus, we pulled into Tavira. Someone had said it was a quaint enough place so I thought I’d check her out.
There’s no train station in Tavira and buses don’t stop there that often. So, after peering out of the little round bus depot and not seeing much in the way of humanity… I thought I’d just get on the next bus and keep going.
That is, until I learned there weren’t any more buses until much later… so I decided to take a walk, grab an espresso, and see if there was anything pulling me to say a bit longer.
Turns out, Tavira is a very odd place. It’s not big, and most of the day you see almost no one, except the occassional napping old napping fisherman. It feels almost like a ghost town there. Still… I could feel “something” in the air. Like ghosts whispering to each other and questioning who the stranger might be. I felt enough of something I can’ t put my finger on, that I decided to take a room for a couple days.
I’m glad I did. Tavira is full of spirits and texure… and the average glass of Port wasn’t too bad either.
(Travessa • Lisboa)
Tavira’s a quaint, but eerie fishing village. Or, was once one. But, it’s divided by a rocky inlet and you cross from Old Tavira to New Tavira over a 13th century Roman bridge. Honestly, I couldn’t tell much difference between the Old and the New. Both looked old and worn to me.
Perplexed as to where all the people went, I crossed the footbridge over to the New town. It felt just as vacant as the Old side, but perhaps the “spirits” felt a wee bit more lively.
After wandering most of the New town for a couple hours, I spotted what looked like somone peering out at me through this rounded tiled house. I hesitated to see who’d pulled the curtain aside, but noticed there was no one there…
(Tavira • Ajar)
The uneasiness felt when you’re in a town thick with perceptable ghost residue and haven’t seen a soul by midmorning… leaves you with a hunger for any sort of man-made sound or evidence.
The wind whipped about the shutters and debris but was discernable in it’s random qualities. I picked out one sound with a pattern that sounded like someone hammering near the marina and eagerly made my way in that direction. As the pounding intensified, my imagination wandered to images of old Portuguese fishermen… scraping and pounding on old boats too far past their prime.
It was difficult to pinpoint just exactly where the pounding was coming from because it echoed a bit. After a few misturns, I located the source and rounded the last corner anticipating local company… no one was there. Just a marina metal door ajar in the wind… tapping out a pattern of constant metallic hammering… as if to mock me.
(Tavira • Crumble)
A crumbled fisherman’s fado whistled inbetween the crooked cracks and broken bits. I wondered when and why this cozy abode fell to time… where the inhabitants had drifte away to… where the two small and gnarled fingers slipped away to…
Drawn to the elegant decay, I studied the visual melody until something caught my eye. It looked as if two weathered fingers poked out through the opening in the door frame. They wiggled briefly and they were gone. I waited for a body or hands to emerge from the rubble, but there was nothing… only the whisper of brightly sticky breeze.
Was it just some bits of debris caught in the wind? Just my imagination? Or, did “they” toy with the idea of showing themselves to the curious stranger?…
(Tavira • Battalion)
Caked from ages of sea crust, the Tavira floater battalion readied themselves for the fishing voyage that would never be. They wait patiently… enduring the crystaline rains, and withering winds… with ancient dreams never to be fulfilled.
(Tavira • Curve)
Dropped down from rounding the bleached, windowless cathedral… as I began my descent from the towns peak, I could see evidence of modern life… tiny television ariels in the distance reassured me there were at least recent inhabintants. But, where were they?
I hadn’t seen a soul for nearly half the day. Seen and heard evidence was there, but nothing material. Did they really slumber until mid-day? Or, did they leave the town to the spirit’s pleasure until they’d tired of roaming?
Still a stranger in a small town, I had no established routes yet… this curve looked an inviting proposition to continue my quest.
(Tavira • Web)
Caught and enrapt by Tavira’s ancient and mysterious net of intrigue… my soul ended the search for meaning. Unraveled by unanswered questions that permeated the foreigner, his spirit joined with those who’d been there before and lingered.
Comfortably lodged within the web of the unknown, he was content to join the textural carcasses of days gone by… surrender…. and meld within the seductive web of wonder.
All Images made in Tavira, Portugal Oct. 2003 © 2010 Skip Hunt
