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Super Duper Ranger
Leaving Ballao we got lost. Where were those helpful officers when we needed them? As we stood at the curb an old woman hobbled towards us. I asked her which way to Villaputzu, but I didn't understand her reply. That was the problem of knowing only a few words in a foreign language: I knew enough to ask for directions, but I didn't comprehend enough to understand the response. The elderly matron didn't find my lack of understanding insurmountable. She merely started walking and waved for us to follow. We revolved our pedals slowly, keeping pace with the old woman's arthritic gait. When we had passed the fifth block and still she powered onward, Sharon shot me a comical glance. "I think she's going to walk us the entire 32 kilometers to Villaputzu," Sharon whispered, barely concealing her glee. Finally, a full kilometer out of her way, the old woman stopped. "Villaputzu," she said, pointing down the road. We smiled and thanked her for her kindness. I watched her in my mirror as she turned around and hobbled back towards town. It was good to know there were still people like her left in our often calloused world. Once we climbed high above the Flumendosa River, the road turned into a cyclist's dream: brand-new ultra-smooth blacktop with hardly any traffic. We sailed into a tranquil pine forest. "It doesn't get more peaceful than this," I said. "Let's camp here." We pushed our bikes up a trail to a secluded spot above the roadway. In the tangy-scented forest, we thought we were far from civilization. But, once again, it didn't take long to be reminded that on Sardinia we were never far from others, never truly alone. Sharon began supper, while I setup the tent. "Ciao!" Sharon called out. Either she was a speedy cook, I figured, or she was saying hello to someone. A young man and his dog were hurdling towards us, leaping rock ledges and scores of brambles in a single bound. "Great," I said, noticing his forest-green uniform. "Super Ranger has arrived." I surmised he was with the park service and had come to tell us to pack up and hit the road: No free camping allowed in his jurisdiction. Perhaps I can decrease our chances of harassment by being hospitable, I thought. "Would you like a beer?" I offered as he quivered to a stop in front of our tent. He accepted without hesitation. I cracked the seal on an Ichnusa (the island's favourite brown beverage) and poured him a mugful. "Ching-ching!" he sang out and drained the mug in one head-tilted slug, then flung the foamy residue onto a nearby bush, and handed back my mug. Sharon introduced us, and in pigeon English-Italiano we exchanged pleasantries. It was amazing what could be said with a few words and hand signals. "Is it okay to camp here?" Sharon asked, having finally worked up her nerve. "No problema," he answered. I was beginning to have my suspicions that I had wasted half a beer. "Forest worker?" I asked, pointing to his green uniform. "Oh, no," he replied. "Walking dog." Ah yes, I suddenly remembered the dog. And where might it be? With cunning wiliness, it had snuck around behind us, and, with our frying pan handle clenched between its teeth, was trying to abscond with our dinner! A sharp rebuke from Super ex-Ranger persuaded his canine friend to release its grip on our frying pan. Super ex-Ranger waved goodbye, and they were off, skipping back downhill to vanish into the brambles as quickly as they had appeared. |
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