By Caleb Cluff
It was the second plume of smoke, to our east, or slightly north-east, that got our attention. Bruise purple, it looked enormous, like a black thundercloud swirling up over the farm.
Bombeiros fight to stop the forest fire from reaching the village of Figueiro dos Vinhos. The wildfires claimed 64 lives.Credit: AP
My wife and I are finishing the third week of our stay with expat Australian friends, Shiralee Saul and John Bleaney, at their home near Figueiro dos Vinhos in central Portugal. Their quinta, or small farm, is in the Leiria district of the country. The tiny hamlet of Figueira sits about 700 metres up a steep hill from them; the slightly larger town of Nodereinho another 500 metres on from that.
Saturday, June 18 was another in a series of hot days in the region. By around 2pm it was 40 degrees, and still. We take turns at plunging into the swimming pool, then retreating to the grapevine-covered trellis of our cottage.
Drone video shows burnt cars on the road between Pedrogao Grande and Figeiro Dos Vinhos, Portugal, after a forest fire on Sunday.Credit: SIC/AP
In the distance a siren, like an air-raid warning sounds. It's the call for the bombeiros, the Portuguese volunteer firefighters, to attend their respective stations. There is a fire. To our west a single thin plume of grey-white smoke spirals into the sky. It's a long way off by our calculation. Behind us, the second plume is of more concern. We dry ourselves and put on heavier clothing – moleskin trousers, a linen shirt, boots. Hoses are laid out.
It seems a reasonable precaution. John and Shiralee's home, Casinha da Bouca, had come near to destruction just two years earlier when a fire swept through the vast eucalypt and pine plantations surrounding it. At that time the bombeiros had come around, evacuating people as the fire approached.
There are no bombeiros this time. They are already engaged in a terrible fight against an unprecedented firestorm.
The way of life in the central and northern farming regions of Portugal has long relied on terracing in the hills. The land, which would otherwise be harsh and unproductive because of the steep terrains, has over centuries been latticed with stone terraces, back-breakingly constructed by hand across the valleys. With each rainfall soil is washed into the terrace, creating a horta, a small area of productive soil.
Burnt cars block the road between Castanheira de Pera and Figueiro dos Vinhos. More than 50 people were killed in what the prime minister called "the biggest tragedy of human life that we have known in years."Credit: Armando Franca
As recent generations have abandoned small villages in the face of economic depression and European Union-induced austerity measures, these terraces have been leased or sold to timber interests, who plant them primarily with fast-growing Tasmanian bluegum eucalyptus crops.
Many of these companies are based in Scandinavia. They use Portugal as a cheap source of land to grow the bluegums, which are planted thickly – often only 30 centimetres apart. The trees grow quickly and tall. They are harvested every seven or 12 years, largely for pulp to make toilet paper.
Residents watch on as Portuguese firefighters working to stop a forest fire from reaching the village of Figueiro dos Vinhos.Credit: AP
The trees are known as "the green desert". They have lowered the water table in the region with their voracious need for moisture. Wildlife and native species of trees and flowers are conspicuously absent wherever they are grown. Corrupt local councils ignore the regulations that specify setbacks for planting and safety. The trees are grown up to the edges of roads, in clear breach of safety guidelines. They are planted in creek beds and drainage culverts. More than 7 per cent of Portugal is now covered with eucalypts.
The Portuguese environmental group Quercus has waged a long fight, of some 40 years, against the proliferation of the gum tree, but the vested interests of the paper companies and the dire financial situation of the nation as a whole means there is little will to curb or even regulate the industry.
Get out. There is no way here. Everything is gone. Go to Pombal.
GNR police officer.
Aound 6.30pm on the day of the fire I suggest we have dinner at a nearby restaurant. We drive to the top of the hill behind Casinho da Bouca. It's a steep climb in low gear up a dreadfully-maintained dirt road, pitted with ruts and pieces of dead pine.
At its summit, just over the lee, is the tiny village of Figueira; "fig tree" in English. We stop to see where the smoke is coming from. It's curling up from the town of Pedrogao Grande, almost 16 kilometres east. To our eye it looks contained, much less threatening than earlier in the afternoon. We decide it's safe to go to dinner, and drive through the narrow streets of Figueira, onto the CM1169-1, a local road that passes under the IC-8 freeway and into Nodeirinho. My last vision of Nodeirinho is of a local woman quietly looking at her horta, neatly lined into its constituent crops. She casts an eye up to the smoke on the horizon as we drive up the M513 through the middle of the eucalypt plantations, before merging onto the N236-1 to get to the IC8 and our destination, Aldeia da Cruz, a few minutes down the road.
The tiny restaurant, A Briosa, serves traditional Portuguese dishes. Sitting in the rear annexe of the restaurant, we eat quietly. Looking at the hills behind us, a sudden mass of reddish-black cloud looms. Ash and embers begin to fall, and the sky quickly darkens. We make our way to pay for our meal to leave, hoping to get back to the farm. The restaurant's owner looks at us worriedly.
"It's very bad," she says.
There are no apps, no warnings. We hear fire and police vehicles screaming past on the freeway above the restaurant. As we drive up onto the freeway, a Guardia Nacional Republicana (GNR) police officer waves us in. He speaks rapidly in Portuguese.
"Lamento," I say. "Voce fala Inglese?" "I'm sorry. Do you speak English?"
"Get out," he says. "There is no way here. Everything is gone. Go to Pombal."
Behind him the hills have erupted in massive flames and all-encompassing smoke. Inside the inferno is the N236-1, the road we had just come down. It's blocked with burning trees and choked with destroyed cars. People fleeing the sudden wall of fire from nearby Castanheira de Pera, trying to get to the perceived safety of Figueiro dos Vinhos, have ploughed into each other, into guard rails and the fallen trees. They are all dead, piled on the road where they abandoned their burning cars.
We meet Sara and Duarte Antunes at a cafe-bar in their hometown of Adega, a kilometre or two from Figueira. They run a small restaurant where Duarte and a partner specialise in Portuguese traditional recipes, using local ingredients and focusing on quality. Sara is celebrating her first year of teaching yoga. They've just finished work for the day and the bar is heavy with cigarette smoke. Beer bottles are spread over the table. We are given sardines and caracoles, the Portuguese version of snails cooked with garlic. Horse and soccer paraphernalia line the walls.
Duarte is a big man with a black beard and dark eyes. He smiles readily and speaks good English, like many Portuguese. Aside from the restaurant, he makes a living landscaping and clearing fire hazards such as bracken each summer. We talk about many things, including the widespread planting of eucalypts in the district and the damage they are doing.
"You are from Australia, man," he says. "There must be some bugs you can send us to get rid of these trees."
Sara is slender with dark hair and two or three dreadlocks. She laughs a lot, a booming laugh. Life generally pleases her, and she is inseparable from her cousin, also named Sara
It comes time to leave, and I ask Duarte how much we owe him. He looks at me seriously. "€100," he says, deadpan. "For the authentic Portuguese experience." I must have blinked. He bursts out laughing. "Get out," he says. "Who cares what the cost is? It all works out." He invites us to the feast day the coming Thursday.
As the fire races along the ridges, we drive to a small town called Aguda, where we stop to assess what we have with us – largely our phones and wallets. People are gathered outside the Cafe Retiro, making frantic calls to relatives and friends. Another GNR vehicle pulls up. It's time to move again; the fire is gaining ground on us.
We try to contact Duarte, but the phone line breaks up. We understand he is fighting the fire, but little else.
In Avelar, a freguesia or parish municipality of the larger town of Ansiao, we rest at a cafe. It's a surreal moment. In the town square, a man with a dancing goat entertains children. Inside the cafe, men drink beer and watch television. There's a soccer match on. It seems everyone is oblivious of the approaching fire. I use Twitter to alert media organisations of what is happening, as news coverage is so limited.
The sky turns black, night-dark, and embers scatter around the garden of the square. The church bell rings endlessly. It's now about 9pm.
John calls friends in Ansiao, just up the road. Sarah Beach and David Allen have an annexe with two beds and some blow-up mattresses we are welcome to use. They run an abandoned dog shelter nearby and are trying to get the dogs to safety as the fire approaches. At this stage Sarah, a former corporate CEO, is running a Facebook page that is providing the best information about what is happening with the fire. The bombeiros site has collapsed under the weight of requests. David meets us at the local supermarket where people fleeing the fire are meeting. We begin to hear stories of other people's lucky escapes, of lost homes and friends missing. It's clear the fire is disastrous.
We sleep very little, despite being exhausted. In the morning my telephone rings constantly. The BBC want to do Skype interviews for television and radio. David breaks the news to us: Figueira and Nodeirinho, Adega and the outskirts of Figueiro dos Vinhos have been caught in the direct line of the fire. There are many more dead than first reported. The two Saras are among them. We have no words. We sit and stand in the yard, silently. The sun blazes.
Caleb Cluff is a journalist with Fairfax Media's Ballarat Courier.