Estranhos e Perigos

Strangers don’t always mean danger, but it can be hard to tell when you’re a stranger yourself

Today for the third time since we’ve moved here a stranger entered the property and wandered around. The first time was a thief who was quickly discovered via the AirTags he unknowingly took with him when he helped himself to our belongings. The police came quickly, tracked him down, our things were returned. The police told us the guy was a know petty thief, called him a loser and promised they’d fix it so we’d never see the thief again, and we haven’t.

The second time was an older neighborhood woman making her way down our cottage steps with six of our solar lights in her hands. We took the lights from her and chased her (gently but firmly) off the property and down the street, with our gardener following her for good measure til she got the message, never return, which she hasn’t.

The third time was today, while I was doing dishes in the carport I turned around to see a man standing ten feet away from me. I was startled; Jake and the h were in the house. I started towards the man, assuming he was one of the many delivery guys we are expecting.

Voce tem um pacote? I asked.

The man said something, gesturing vaguely towards the village.

I walked over to him and saw there was no vehicle parked at the gate.

Quem é você? Who are you? I asked. I didn’t understand his answer and my mind was flooding with all the things I wanted to say but couldn’t seem to locate the words for.

I interrupted him. O que você quer? What do you want? He started to answer and I shook my head.

Desculpe, por favor, vai embora, I said. Sorry, please go away. Esta e propriedade privada.

I pointed at the gate. He stared at me.

Agora, I said. Now. I pointed down the driveway and began walking.

He kept speaking and I shook my head. I don’t yet speak Portuguese well, I said.

You speak a little, he said in Portuguese, nodding. I understand. I am Angolan.

Eu emprendendo, I said I am learning.

Where are you from? he asked, in Portuguese.

I live here now, I answered, also in Portuguese. With my husband and our enormous dog. We are from the United States.

He said a few more things. I frowned. Esta e propriedade privada, I said. Desculpe, voce vai, I repeated.

He said his name and held his hand out to shake. I shook his hand and said my name.

A Portuguese name! he said.

Sim, I replied. Prazer em conhecer voce, (nice to meet you) I said, never having imagined this use of the first Portuguese sentence I learned. I was glad to have something polite sounding to say, as my words had been very abrupt to this point, thanks to my large vocabulary but limited grammar.

He didn’t seem particularly worrisome - he just wandered down the cottage steps that seemed abandoned only to encounter me, and clear signs of occupation where before there was none. Still it is illegal to trespass on private property, abandoned or not, and I was still feeling uneasy at finding him so close to me with no warning.

I opened the gate and gestured him through.

Voce e muita bonita, Sandra, he said in Portuguese. I understood him perfectly but simply looked at him blankly.

En español, muy linda, he tried again.

He made a gesture with both hands outlining the shape of my body.

Magnifique, he said, kissing his fingertips.

By now I was becoming angry. About a month ago while walking Jake we encountered a man on the public walkway that runs near the eastern edge of the property. Right next to the walkway is someone else’s property, then maybe a hundred feet in you encounter a six foot wall, the edge of our land. A dirt path leads from the walkway to the wall, which has partially fallen down; it was clear people had been cutting through our land while it was unoccupied. We rebuilt the wall and put a Privada sign up, and except for a couple of middle school students, no one has used the path again, as it now dead ends into a tall wall that few would want to climb. (Even the middle schoolers only tried once).

Seeing me the man said something I didn’t quite understand, but his gesture towards the path seemed clear enough.

Esse caminho nao continua, I told the man. This path doesn’t go through. He then asked me more things and I had to say I did not speak Portuguese well, at which he asked me if I was British. I said no, American. He said he was Angolan, and lived nearby. I said I lived nearby too. Maybe I can stop by, he suggested, or maybe your husband would not like it?

He said all of this in Portuguese and I understood him just fine but had no idea how to respond. I just stared at him, flummoxed.

Você é linda, he said.

Esse caminho nao continua, I repeated. Come Jake, I said. Jake had stood quietly by as we talked; he is friendly to a fault but not always. I felt safe enough, knowing Jake would react to ill intent. He walked close to the man, curious, with no sign of unfriendliness. But his size is intimidating, and the man backed away.

Boa tarde, I said, and we continued on our way.

I was nonplussed, and became angry at myself when I told the h about it. Why hadn’t I just kept my mouth shut? Why do men say these things to me?

It was the same today - I had meant to firmly escort the man off my property, immediately. I should have gone directly into the house to get the h, of course. But I was so surprised - at first I had thought he was an Amazon delivery man, or someone from the electric company, we were expecting visits from both today. Besides our good friends and workers, these are the only men who have ever come up the driveway - men who have a reason to. It wasn’t until I walked towards the man that I realized he was not a delivery guy and not the guy from EDP… he was too old and ragged looking to be either, although on second thought the man who delivered the anchors for our solar panels was in his late 70s and dressed in a t-shirt and old pants.

The point being I only belatedly realized that he was a trespasser, and by then I was a good distance from the back door, too far to call for the h and be heard, and too surprised by who the man wasn’t, all the while groping for my Portuguese words, to think clearly and quickly how to get rid of him.

Only later did my phrases occur to me: você não vai embora, or chamo a policia, or você precisa sair.

Eu tenho trabalho a fazer agora, por favor vá. I have work to do now, please go. I gestured him through the gate, and he wished me a Feliz Natal.

Merry Christmas, I said.

He repeated the phrase, in English, in a delighted voice. He raised his hand and waited, so I high fived him.

Tchau, boa tarde, I said and closed the gate firmly behind him.

He gave a little wave and dammit if he didn’t again kiss his fingertips. Mwah!

I went back up the walk and into the house where the h was preparing lunch. Only then did reaction set in - the surprise of finding a man who was not a delivery man standing so close to me, the stress of trying to communicate, and frankly the rage at the sexual element being introduced, being made to feel vulnerable on my own property. Why do men who behave this way? Has there ever been in the history of the world a woman who has responded Oh thank you I am so glad you like my looks, let’s fornicate without delay!

The h walked out to the street and looked up and down, then returned to the house. If that ever happens again come get me, he said. I explained how waiting for a dishwasher, washer and dryer and water heater delivery guys had momentarily caused me to have my guard down. The h hugged me.

But seriously, he said. Don’t be nice. Don’t even talk except to say, Wait right there. Just come tell me there’s a man outside. I’ll come out with my air rifle.

Now I almost feel sorry for anyone showing up who shouldn’t be here. The air rifle is perfectly legal and harmless unless you are a rat - the reason the h bought it after um rato scampered across my path as I came up the driveway late one night, checking for little chicks hiding in the sidewalk weeds because they were too little to fly up to the tree branches and roost.

The air rifle doesn’t look harmless - it looks like a weapon of war which is irritating - surely an air rifle does not need to look like a scary AR-15. I keep thinking about the movie A Christmas Story, the one where all little Ralphie wants is a Red Ryder Range 200 Shot BB gun (you’ll put your eye out, kid, everyone tells him). Imagining that innocent-faced blonde boy holding the h’a air rifle makes the blood curdle. But imagining the face of the Angolan Pepe Le Pew seeing my h emerge from the house behind me saying quem é você, o que você quer? makes me feel less vulnerable. Who cares if the h seems like a typical US gun nut in doing so - sometimes stereotypes can work for you as well as against you.

I’m not afraid. Our interactions with the police have been amazing. And the woman and today’s vagrant did not seem dangerous. The property has been abandoned for decades, it will take awhile before people stop assuming it still is. Already our driveway is always clear in front of the gate; the back of the property has a few privada signs but is still wildly overgrown, a situation we will correct in the primavera. Until then we will post more signs and a gate at the top of the cottage steps, barring the way and forcing any wanderers back the way they came.