By JUNE LOVER features@algarveresident.com
After 35 years in the TV and film industry, June Lover retired to the Algarve in 2006. Having owned a holiday property here for 12 years she now lives in the hills above Almancil.
Something tells me that if car manufacturers hadn’t invented the horn, Portugal would be a totally pedestrian nation.
It’s my belief that the Portuguese motorist buys a car not because of its make, colour, size, comfort, mpg, carbon emission, and so on, but because of the sound of its horn.
Horn-blowing is a popular national pastime and a language unto itself. Depending on how it’s used, it can demonstrate happiness, irritation, anger, rage, rudeness, and even politeness.
It’s like an SMS, and therefore an essential part of everyday life. Why am I trying to falar português when all I need is a horn?
A short pip means a quick “Hello!” and is seemingly mandatory as friends and acquaintances are acknowledged along the way. I find this a bit disconcerting and always assume someone’s criticising my driving skills.
It’s also a noisy replacement for the Brits’ rather more demure headlight flashing when offering a courteous “after you” to a fellow motorist. This sort of makes sense given that the Algarve sun is so bright you can barely see another car’s indicators, let alone its headlights.
Pip-pip-pip on the other hand, means “Hi! How’re you doin’? Long time no see!” as you drive down the road on a quiet Sunday morning minding your own business. I should be used to it by now, but it still catches me unawares as young Horatios talk to each other via their horns across the street in front of me.
Every pip-pip message receives its reply, so another series of pip-pips ensues to indicate that they’re all meeting up at the Dog & Duck for a spot of liquid lunch.
This is followed by a variety of pips depending on whether the answer is CU there, can’t make it, or we’re going to the Black Pig. At which point the cars stop in the middle of the road whilst the merits of the Dog & Duck and the Black Pig are debated, until eventually a decision is reached, and with a lot of pip-pip-pip-pip-pips the traffic begins to run smoothly again.
Traffic lights can easily turn into a noisy experience, especially when you’re in pole position. If you’re not off the starting block faster than Daley Thompson then you get a Beeeeeep!
The absence of amber means there’s nothing between Stop and Go, so no matter how well prepared you are, slipping the clutch like a formula one racing driver, if your wheels don’t squeal and spin when the light goes green, leaving burning rubber on the tarmac and showering the car behind you with dust and grit, you get plenty of horn abuse.
Every so often you get stuck behind one of those ancient little three-wheeler vehicles made of corrugated metal that sounds like a two-stroke lawnmower and travels at the speed of a battery-operated golf trolley. There’s nothing you can do about it.
It happens to us all and you just hope that the traffic behind you realises that you’re not driving your two-litre power horse at 10 kph for the fun of it.
Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that and, in no time at all, you get a Beeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeep! from behind which is rapidly picked up by all the other cars following.
Within minutes there’s a deafening and tuneless cacophony. But what can you do? The road ahead isn’t clear enough to overtake so you just have to grin and bear it.
It doesn’t take much to cause a gridlock in my neck of the woods, and gradually I begin to feel that I’m the one responsible. In the meantime, the old bloke in his sewing machine is oblivious to the mayhem he is causing, and we dread the steep hill ahead.
His 1947 vintage jelly mould doesn’t sport anything so advanced as a rear-view mirror, and fifty years of driving his old jalopy have rendered him completely deaf, so he has no idea of the pandemonium he leaves in his wake.
With as much patience as I can muster, I keep a wary eye on the traffic behind me, waiting for the inevitable to happen. And it does.
Six cars back, an impatient Horatio breaks ranks, puts his foot through the floor, and guns past me at breakneck speed, narrowly missing a head-on collision with the Eva bus from Loulé, and nearly forces my old man off the road to land upside-down in the gutter like a stranded tortoise. By this stage my heart is in my mouth and my nerves are in shreds. But never for one moment does it occur to me to use my horn. Why would I? What would it achieve?
The Portuguese are a kind, loving and affectionate nation, forever hugging and kissing and treating everyone like long-lost friends, even though they only saw each other yesterday.
But give them a car horn, and a Jekyll and Hyde character emerges. The nicest, politest, sweetest person turns into a monster.
Every day except Sunday, the fishmonger parks his van in the middle of my little lane, and leans on his horn to alert the neighbourhood of his arrival. It sounds like a siren – uão-uão-uão-uão-uão! (that’s my Portuguese version of wow-wow-wow-wow) and seems to go on for an eternity, but it’s probably only 10 seconds.
It also alerts a hundred dogs across the valley, who set up a howling competition that would put the Baskerville hound to shame.
The locals (always the men!) appear from nowhere and gather round his van to haggle over his small catch of the day. It’s a social occasion. And why not? Shopping should be fun, and I applaud these gentlemen for taking on the responsibility of bringing home today’s lunch at a good price.
But if I want to get my car out of the lane while he is conducting his business – tough! I tried giving my horn a friendly toot once but all I got was filthy looks, and it merely prolonged the delaying tactics even further. Horn-blowing is a Portuguese entertainment apparently, and not for estrangeiras like me.
Another form of horn-blowing is actually meant to be helpful and polite, although it doesn’t seem so at the time. Parking, in my local town, is usually done nose-in onto the calçadas at the side of the road.
And reversing out of your parking space can be a tricky business because your rear view is nearly always blocked by either a delivery van, or an abandoned car on its hazard lights. This does my head in but seems to be the accepted practice.
So you just have to keep nudging your way out backwards until you get a clear view. This is where Pip-pip! comes in, because the oncoming traffic is warning you of its presence.
It’s not an invitation to continue your manoeuvre, merely a friendly warning that you’ll lose your rear bumper if you’re not careful. While I find this quite helpful, I can’t help noticing that most Portuguese drivers totally ignore it and just reverse out into the middle of the road willy-nilly on the basis that if someone runs into them, it will be the other driver’s fault.
You think I’m joking? But a Bip bip-de-bip! means “Hurry up woman! I need your parking space!” I might not be able to speak Portuguese, but I’m certainly getting the hang of horn-blowing language.
Last, but not least, the Wedding Procession. Aaaahhh. Now this is what the car horn was really invented for. I can’t think of anything better than watching a convoy of cars, with bits of net tied to their aerials, bride and groom in the front vehicle, as they parade through the town, horns blaring until their batteries will surely expire, announcing to the world “Just Married!” I love it!
