Moors and Christians

There are so many Moors and Christians parades in the province that we rather take them for granted. But, with having a houseguest last week we roused ourselves from in front of the telly and went to watch the entry of the Moors in the town of Novelda.

Novelda has around 25,000 inhabitants and with that number they mounted a parade that lasted over three hours. The events celebrate the defeat of the Moors, the Muslim invader, by the home grown Christiams but it always seems to us that the Moorish groups have more members and better costumes. Each year the comparsas, that's the names for each group, prepare for the festival from one event to the next. Each comparsa has several sub groups that wear the same or a similar costume; these subgroups traditionally walk shoulder to shoulder through the streets. The costumes are incredibly detailed and must cost a fortune to produce - in fact there must be a whole industry built on pointed shoes, scimitars and bejewelled turbans. Moorish men used to black up but that is no longer politically correct and the cigars that they used to smoke seem to have gone too. Nonetheless the beards, fake or grown for the occasion, and the pot bellies remain. Women used to be an embellishment, usually dancing girls, but nowadays they often walk shoulder to shoulder with the men dressed in similar costumes or they form separate lines carrying weaponary of one sort or another.

Each comparsa hires a band for the parades. The bands come from all over the province. The noteworthy feature is the percussion section with huge "kettle drums" mounted on trollies and the music has a similar quality whatever the tune.

As well as the bands and the lines there are any number of variations. Horses canter and gallop in the spaces between lines often rearing up or doing that strange stepping walk, fire eaters do their thing and there are lots of dance troupes. In Novelda we had a group of maybe thirty people going by with hawks on their hands with the hawks flying to lures from time to time. There are several floats too, Often just with tiered seating for the "Carnival Queens" and their courtiers but with an infinite variety from gigantic mechanical beasts through to fantastic constructions and mobile platforms for living statues and other performances.

It was hard work just watching them go by for so long, tough on the feet and legs and with the temperature at midnight still at 36ºC. We thought our vantage point in the doorway of a bar had important strategic advantages! If it was hard work watching imagine what it must have been like for the men and women walking in heavy costumes, dancing the whole route orfilling their mouths with kerosene to blow fire time after time after time.

Big John

The weather in Culebrón remains warm. It's been up and down a bit, temperature wise, but at the moment we're a tad over 37ºC. When I've done the gardening the temperature doesn't seem to be too much of a hindrance so long as there is a cooling drink to hand. The sweat that dribbles into my eye sockets and then splashes onto the inside of my sunglasses to dry into salty smears makes precision work more difficult but there is always the compensation of feeling a bit like Big John Wayne wiping his forehead way out West.

We've just taken our house guest, John Leigh, to Novelda, a nearby town, where there is a very nice Art Nouveau house. When we arrived parking was dead easy because the town's fiesta is under way so all the shops and businesses were shut. Luckily the house was open. A bit of a bonus was that there was a bike race going on around the streets.

I've been on a bike once or twice in my life; they seem like hard work. The route is always uphill and every time there's a gale force headwind. Those cyclists must have been feeling the heat but, worse than that, for them no John Wayne compensation - I mean can you imagine the Duke in Lycra?

Telefonica - episode 84

"But you don't have a proper address," "What?" "You don't have a proper address so we've cancelled your order!"

That was the drift of a conversation with the phone company when I checked again today why we are still without either phone or Internet. So I made another order.

Five minutes ago the local phone engineer rang my mobile - "About this phone to install in Calle Garcia," "We're not in Calle Garcia, we're in Culebrón, number 5, near the goats" "Then you can't have what you've ordered, you can't have 6Mgb in Culebrón, you can only have 1Mgb" "Fine, that'll do." A voice cut into the conversation, presumably from Telefonica Central, "OK, we can modify the order."OK, bye." And the line went dead.

Is there a Telefonica van headed our way, will we still get the special offer price.

Stamped and approved

I had my meeting at the Town Hall Technical Office this morning to finalise the paperwork for the roof repair. It turned out my appointment was with the Councillor responsible for housing which may explain the delay in getting to see him. Anyway we met and he got the paperwork stamped as completed.

"All done?" I asked, "All done" he said. Somehow I doubt it - too easy, too quick. But what joy if it is, if we're done and dusted. Just Telefonica now!

All things must pass

I slept through the Gran Chocolatada which, according to the programme, would help the children to gather their forces ready for the games afterwards and I slept through the men cooking Gachamigas (usually a sort of pancake but sometimes crumbs - poor people's food made mainly from flour and water) and I was eating lunch with Maggie, recently returned from Andalucia, when the table games began at 5pm.

But we saw the Solemn Procession with the images of Saint James and Saint Joseph carried through the streets accompanied by the Parish Priest of Pinoso, the Authorities, the Queens and Courtiers and the Terrós Pipe and Drum Band (whoever wrote the programme for the fiesta showed a fine turn of phrase.)

All done for another year then.

The Melody Duo

I've never cared much for dancing. It may have something to do with the humiliation of Miss Robert's enforced Highland Reels when I was seven or it may just be in my nature. I was watching something perfectly decent on the telly anyway but when it finished at around 12.30am and I went out for a smoke in the garden the sound of the old Andy Williams hit "I can't take my eyes off of you," sung in Spanish floated, in from the village. It seemed silly not to walk down and have a look. After all I hadn't bothered to go to the meal because of the possibility that someone may speak to me in Spanish - Maggie, who talks to me in English and deflects unwanted small talk, is away in Granada at the moment - but I was pretty sure that I could avoid most conversations, get a drink and lean, anonymously, against the wall whilst the Melody Duo did their stuff. Maybe I prefer to be out of it in a a crowd rather than out of it all together. On the other hand I'm relatively old; I've been there and I've done that, I knew how the evening would enfold and I couldn't really see the fun in it. Walking into the village, shelling out for some drinks, being bored and trying to avoid eye contact isn't a recipe for a diverting evening. But to miss the highlight of the fiesta seemed plain wrong. What to do?

I went. The Melody Duo, two blokes in white suits standing on the decorated farm trailer, were doing their thing. Inma saw me walking in, she shouted me over, I hovered, Paco then Eduardo shook my hand, I sidled away, I bought a whisky, I bought another, I skulked by the church, I smoked two cigars and I sloped off when they were all dancing the Macarena.

Written 19 July 2009

For the want of a nail

Spain has been hard hit by the present financial crisis. The motor for much of the economy was construction but most building work has ground to a halt. For every brickie not working there is a long chain of people affected from electricians and plumbers to lorry drivers, furniture sellers and restauranteers - unemployment is an epidemic. The main earner in the town of Pinoso is marble and with competition from the Chinese and the slump in the domestic market the town has seen its income halved. The Town Hall, with less money to spend, has cut its support for lots of cultural activities - the grant for the local brass band, for instance, dropped from 40,000€ to 19,500€.

This weekend Culebrón has its local fiesta in honour of San Jaime. Normally the Town Hall coughs up some cash to pay for fancy lights, to hire the local dance troupe etc. Not this year. So the programme is much less extensive and much less expensive.

We started last night, with a vermouth session. Vermut is a traditional drink in these here parts and our village bodega makes it. One of the other bodegas in town processes the local crops of olives, almonds, lupin seeds etc. A couple of phone calls to brothers, sisters, cousins or whatever and the village had the makings of a party - vermouth with nibbles. Only the soda water, pop for the children and ice had to be paid for.

We were due to start at 8pm; I turned up at around 8.20 and nothing much was happening. I helped to put out the tables and chairs but it wasn't till around 9.15 that Roberto turned up with the booze. The cohetero, the man who sets off the rockets to announce the start of the fiesta, set about his task. I loaned him my lighter. The party was under way.

Getting a coffee

I'd collected my new bank card, got the bath sealant, the potting compost and some pop so it was time for a coffee and a smoke. I popped into the local British run bar in the centre of town and "ordered up a cup of mud" (Tom Waits from the Red Sovine song Phantom 309.) The owner was looking serious.

Business is bad. The Britons who live on pensions paid in Sterling have seen their Euro income drastically cut. The younger, working age, Britons have lost their jobs because of the financial slump and have headed back to the UK. The self employed Brits were generally associated with construction, housing etc. and as that market has dried up so has their income. The early morning Spanish breakfast trade has also shrunk with the offices, shops and banks that the Spaniards worked in being closed or merged. The final nail in the coffin is that this particular bar has always been "working class" and a Spanish café just up the road has bought some classy new tables, chairs and umbrellas which seem to be attracting the Brits who see themselves as slightly more sophisticated.

The end could well be in sight.

Ranting

I have complained before about the banks in Spain. I'm going to do it again.

When I was in Ciudad Rodrigo I opened an account with a bank called Banesto. It didn't go smoothly. Despite several visits they never managed to transfer my direct debits successfully and they lied to me about commission charges. I asked about charges before opening the account and I was given a list. The list did not mention that every Internet transfer would cost 2€. "Ah, that's not a commission, that's a service charge."

As much as anything I chose Banesto because there is a branch in Pinoso. At least there was. It was closed down the week before we got back. There is, however, an agency with the Banesto sign and there is a note on the old bank office to say that business can be transacted in the agency. "Can I get money out of my account here?" I asked, "Of course:" But it wasn't true. If my account had been in Pinoso I could have got to my money but as it was in Ciudad Rodrigo my options were to go to the bank machine of another bank - where there is a charge - or to drive to Monóvar some 14kms away.

I got very cross and in shameful, grammatically inept, Spanish I complained loudly. "The sign says Banesto, my bank book says Banesto but I can't get my money. It's always the same, every time a little trick to siphon off a euro here and a euro there. You're a bunch of liars and thieves!

I could see the looks of complete disbelief between the two women on the other side of the desk. What was wrong with this Brit, who couldn't speak properly, making such a fuss over a commission charge of 1.43€? So far, this year, two accounts, both continuosly in credit have had attracted charges of 180€.

Contrasts

Each year the Culebrón Neighbourhood Association arranges a meal. We eat under the pine trees in front of the village hall. That's where we were on Saturday evening. As usual people were keen to greet us and Maggie explained time and time again that her contract time in Salamanca was now over and she had a new contract in Cartagena. Our travel and living arrangements were discussed over and over. But with that conversation ended we all looked at our feet a while, shuffled and then remembered an impotrtant appointment with someone else three or four metres away.

When it was time to grab a seat at the table we were, as usual, carefully but courteously edged from the centre towards the ends of the long table. Left to our own devices. But, the President of the Association was waiting for her family to turn up which they finally did something like an hour after the arranged kick off. They took the spare place settings at the end of the table so that, suddenly, we were no longer the outcasts but surrounded by Spaniards. We munched and chatted the evening away through a mixture of prawns, dried fish, savoury eggs, squid stew, pork stew, chicken with garlic and a few bottles of wine, beer and water. A pleasant evening.

Our pals, John and Trisha Moore asked us if we fancied Sunday Lunch with them at the campsite on the Jumilla Road. We said yes. Rachel our houseguest had been with us for the village meal and now she was to see a little part of the way that we Brits in Alicante transport our homeland with us. I had fried Camembert, roast beef with appropriate trimmings and the cherry and apple crumble to finish. We munched and chatted the afternoon away. A pleasant afternoon.

Some things

I spoke too soon about Telefonica. We've ordered a new phone line and Internet. The engineer phoned the day after the order and I wrote my defence of Telefonica over on Life In Ciudad Rodrigo. The engineer phoned again the day of our journey over here from Salamanca. I had to put him off of course and I rather lost the drift of the conversation but he seemed a bit concerned that we were in a village rather than, as he he had presumed, in the town. He hasn't phoned since we've been back and all we can get from Telefonica's customer services is that, in line with the contract, they will provide the line within 30 days. Cutting edge technology then?

Maggie needs a medical certificate for work. We bought the form from a tobacconist. All she needed was a doctor to fill it in. She rang for an appointment but, because she signed on to the Castilla y Leon health care system she had to go into Pinoso to sign back on to the Valencia system. Luckily it was Thursday. It's only possible to register with a doctor on Tuesday and Thursday between 12 and 2.

Our architect rang to say he had the certificate that we need to take to the Town hall to sign off the work on our roof. His stamp, guarantee of the such and such college of architects, proves that it's not a gash job done by Bob the Builder - he, he.

I popped into the Technical office at the Town Hall to hand over the form so their people could sign off the work. There's only one bloke I can deal with (Luckily I helped this man to buy a motorbike exhaust from the USA.) Unfortunately he wasn't there. In fact when I think about it he's never there. In turning up at the office around twenty times in the course of this roof repair he's been there maybe five times. To give him his due I do usually go at breakfast time - anytime between 9.45 and 12.15 - and he does have a notice by his desk to say he only deals with walk in punters on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The appointment I have with him is for the 20th July. Poor dear, obviously rushed off his feet.

Roberto wasn't in the Culebrón Bodega when Maggie dropped in for a wine transfusion. Antonio, the normally taciturn brother, was remarkably talkative. He showed us the new insulation in the olive oil storage shed and told us what he thought about climate change.

We have been slashing back the undergrowth in our "garden". A good Spanish garden is clean - i.e. bare earth between the plants. I am amazed at how much vegetation can be supported by 1000m² of soil. The piles of rakings have spiritual links with that butter mountain, wine lake etc. Superabundance. At least the scorching sun has turned most plants into brown crackly things. The picture is of one of the two piles so far.

It has been warm, around 36ºC maximum most days and a minimum around 22ºC, since we got back. It was cloudy yesterday and we had a thunderstorm and downpour to test our new guttering. It seemed to work.

Apologies

I have made a couple of entries from the Education office in Murcia City and it has all been a bit complicated. So, if the blog looks odd I apologise. I'll sort it when I can. In the meantime it's something rather than nothing.

El Pinet

Maggie has known her friend Jane since they were 9 and at school together. It would be ungentelmanly of me to say how long ago that was but it is a long, long time.

Jane and Rolf are renting a cave just 30 minutes down the road. We've been to theirs to drink their beer and they came here for the melon and to look askance at the traditional rice with rabbit and snails at the restaurant in Raspay. Yesterday we drove to the coast. For us the coast nearly always means Santa Pola because it's the town we first stayed in when we came to Spain.

The Med was sill there looking very nice. The sun was still shining. Santa Pola performed its role as Spanish seaside town admirably. We strolled we gawped, we ate, we strolled again.

After lunch, around 6pm, we went on to El Pinet. It's a funny little beach we said. The houses are built along the edge of the beach, there's a dusty road that runs behind the houses, a couple of old fashioned restaurants painted green and a whole heap of Dutch camper vans parked under the pines by the road. It's so different to Santa Pola or Guardamar or Benidorm.

The houses, the restaurants, the dusty road and the pines (but not the Dutch) were all there. But so were thousands of Spanish holidaymakers. Every house had been rented out to a family. Grans and Aunties and Dads and Mums sat on their terraces snoozing, watching the world go by, playing cards or listening to the football on the radio as they recovered from Sunday lunch. Some family members were doing those exact same things but on the beach. The small child sitting in a bucket to swill off the sand amused me and reminded me of sitting on the drainer to have a wash 50 years ago in Yorkshire.

Written 6 July 2009

The house

Home. As I drove onto our front patio Maggie was there to greet me. Eduardo was sitting on a chair cleaning himself after a satisfying meal. The house looked very yellow. That was my first impression; very yellow.

We went on an inspection tour. The garden is a parched and withered jungle but the house looks OK. The detail in places is dreadful and there are some things that are laughable but the overall effect is fine. It's the building work of an enthusiastic amateur but it is definitely fine. OK, OK, OK. After all those months away to come back to a house that looks finished, with a roof, with gutters, with the patios largely clear of debris and with the interior dry and organised is a great relief. The new paint, done by a pal, finishes the place off nicely. Yellow with maroony red paintwork.

Written 5 July 2009

Shades of colour

On July 1st we drove away from Ciudad Rodrigo. We had two cars. Maggie and Eduardo left before me as I had one last thing to do. It was around 20ºC as the day began in Castilla y Leon, it was green and brown and the river sparkled as I crossed the bridge to leave town for the last time. When I stopped for a fag break just outside Segovia it was around 32ºC, there were small ash like trees, little red flowers and the smell of cool vegetation in the lay by. Thundering around Madrid, surrounded by lorries and vans and cars on the M50 the temperature was up to 34ºc and the construction lorries and diggers kicked up clouds of yellow dust as they worked alongside the road. Across Castilla la Mancha the combines were out - their progress across the parched brown fields marked by plumes of orange dust that hung in the still, crackling air. When I stopped in Almansa I parked beneath some pines for shade, the chap in the van next to me had left the engine on to keep the aircon running. It was 36ºC dusty and dry. Into Murcia, passing the vines, the olives, the almonds growing in the almost red soil. And finally into Valencia; to Alicante, home turf with Mount Cabezo standing guard over Pinoso and our house. 729kms, 7hours and 35 minutes later the green and brown had become shades of orange, yellow and brown.

Originally written on 1 July 2009