Posted by: puebloman | April 5, 2009

The Stammerers

Almachar’s theatre is a recent addition to its civic buildings. It’s called the “Cultural Centre” (Casa de la Cultura). Some events traditionally associated with the open air such as trestle stage events or parades, are now drearily exhibited upon the municipal stage. The advantage of the theatre is that it has a roof. This gives it the edge over traditional venues during the dark months when it might, it just might,  rain.

Last night Jude and I went to the Casa de la Cultura to see performance of Flamenco singing. Almachar is rightly proud of its patronage of the Flamenco. It has an ongoing programme of Flamenco events, a bar called the “Refuge of the poets” that stages Flamenco, and a glorious programme of Flamenco at the Autumn festival of Garlic Soup, the “Ajo Blanco”.

Unusually for expats, Jude and I both love Flamenco and on this evening we were the only foreigners among a very large audience, a mixture of elderly and quite young Spaniards. The middle generation, ours, seemed to be missing in both languages.

The first half of the programme consisted of a Homage to the Cante singer Paco Toronjo. We understood (just) from the ponderous introductions that, although Paco was not from Almachar he wished he had been, and even when performing in Cordoba or Seville longed for the audiences of Almachar, whose taste and expertise in the forms and traditions of Cante and Flamenco were unsurpassed anywhere in Andalucia.

The homage was performed by a narrator whose sometimes humorous anecdotes were punctuated by songs performed by the brilliant flamenco guitarist Manuel Rodriguez Portillo, and a singer of great expression and passion, Rafael Becerra Lima. Rafael is a man in his absolute physical and vocal prime, but whose professional nickname is “El Tato”, which means “The Stammerer”.

The title has a long pedigree. Notker the Stammerer 840-912, was the poet, teacher and storyteller to the court of Charlemagne. Notker was described as “delicate of body but not of mind, stuttering of tongue but not of intellect, pushing boldly forward in things Divine, a vessel of the Holy Spirit without equal in his time”.

In a more up to date evocation of “El Tato” , the reverend Gary Davis’s “Can I get you now? Oh Lord must I hesitate?”

Garcia Lorca’s gave a lecture on the Deep Song (Cante Jondo) at the university of Madrid just before the festival that he and the composer Manuel de Falla organised in1922. Lorca’s description of unaccompanied gypsy song goes thus:

“Like the primitive Indian musical system, deep song is a stammer, a wavering emission of the voice, a marvelous bucchal undulation that destroys the the resonant cells of our tempered scale and eludes the cold rigid staves of modern music, turning the tightly closed flowers of the semitone blossom into a thousand petals.”                             (Trans: Will Kirkland 1999)

So the title “Stammerer” is a compliment, and contributes to that hair-raising phenomenon the “Duende”, about which more another time. . . .

The  second half was performed by the glorious Encarna Anillo, who topped the bill.  Her programme was entitled “Dulzura y Maneras” (Style and sweet words). She began with an extraordinary sung-without-guitar song, a siguiriya. To Lorca, this is the older music of the Cante Jondo. She sang passionately and precisely –  silencing the audience and thickening the air with expectation.

After this, on came her accompanist, Juan Requena, a callow youthful guitar playing boy who looked liked he’d just been dragged out of bed –  his shirt hanging out of  his trousers, his face puffy and wan, his hair lank and greasy. He sat in his chair and slowly tuned his instrument as though he’d never done it before. Slowly he let his eyes settle upon Encarna. He was a stutterer, she was the style.

Although he got technically better as he warmed up, technique was beside the point. His eyes locked upon her. As his fingers rippling across the strings and rapping the box of the guitar. He licked his lips while he played as though in a sexual paroxysm, and at the climax of each piece she would turn her eyes upon him so that together they would lose themselves in the music.

An  evening  of stammering passion, communicated by force and hestitation – passion pouring through vessels not altogether able to contain it.

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Posted by: puebloman | April 2, 2009

Senior moments

This week in Almachar is senior citizens week. One reason we live here, among many, is the horror of growing old in England. Respect for older people is traditional to the culture of the Pueblo and manifests itself in many ways, not least in this week’s “Semana del Mayor”. A strong thread of chocolate and dancing runs through the festival events, and the week runs something like this:

Monday: Inaugural ceremony with the Mayor. In the afternoon, the award of prizes. There is a prize for services to senior citizens (This year it goes to Almachar’s association of women), a prize for the “Grandmother of Almachar” and a diploma for all citizens of the Pueblo who reached their 65th birthday this year. This ceremony is followed by cocktails and aperitivos for all.

Tuesday: Senior citizens’ Mediterranean breakfast, following by historical retrospective on Almachar, by means of an “intergenerational encounter” between senior citizens and the children of the village. In the afternoon –  a production of the “Constant wife” by Somerset Maugham, put on by a company of senior citizens from Puerto de la Torre. Also theatre and music performed by the Almachar “Friends of flamenco”.

Wednesday: Coach excursion to Malaga University including a visit to the botanical gardens.

Thursday: A senior citizens’ organised walk under the scheme “Walk to live”. In the afternoon, to balance out the walk,  a “Chocolate and Puddings” event.  Home made stuff from Almachar, and contributions from the ex-pat senior citizens of puddings from the UK, Ireland and Holland.

Friday: A cultural encounter between the senior citizens of Almachar and those of other local villages, then music. “Verdiales”, which is local folk music, performed by the senior citizens of Comares, followed by a free lunch for everyone over 60, followed by dancing in the afternoon including performances of flamenco and choreographed pieces from Almachar and local villages. The ex-pat senior citizens will contribute a performance of the “Gay Gordons”.

It beats staring at a wall in an old folks home stinking of piss.  Don’t you think?

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Posted by: puebloman | March 30, 2009

Subjunctivitis

Verbs in the Spanish language have two equal and different “moods”. Last week our Spanish teacher turned the spaceship Endeavour out towards the great unknown, to “boldly go” as Captain Kirk would have had it, where few English speakers had gone before. Not willingly anyway. We were leaving the world of the “indicative” mood , where everything is more or less certain, and entering into the dimension of the “subjunctive” mood where the rules are somewhat bent.

The indicative mood uses verbs as we were taught to use them as kids – as  “action” or “doing” words that make things happen. They lurch forward like John Wayne, ready to slug all obstacles to the floor and they don’t take “no” for an answer. In the subjunctive mood however, the verb is  a different animal, lounging in a soft chair,  legs apart and dress unbuttoned. It evokes the mood of yearning,  hope, doubt,  expectation or desire. It is most useful when the need is great and  the outcome uncertain.

English used to have a strong spoken subjunctive too but today we’ll do anything to avoid it. The language has somehow allowed itself the become nerdified. We’ve thrown away, for example,  the words “thee” “thy” “thou” and “thine” and swapped their gentle intimacy for the clumsy formality of  “you”.

I blame Dr Johnson for his horrible language manual, the dictionary. Published in 1755 it laid the foundation for a technologised English list of words that would serve the empire during the machine age. This was the beginning of the end of intimate mutating English.

To get to the point where you can find a direct analogy in English to the Spanish subjunctive you have to time travel backwards past Johnson to an age where language was able to yield to feeling. Shakespeare will do. He had a vocabulary four times the size of ours, the intimate “thou” and full use of the subjunctive mood. The character of Hamlet is virtually written in the subjunctive.  Thus:

“Oh that this too too solid flesh would melt”

Easily slips into the delicious:

“¡Ojala, si esta sólida carne se fundiera!”

The word “Ojala” itself is a curious Spanish word that draws us  into the arms of the subjunctive. It’s a piece of Arabic and evidence of Spain’s Muslim past. It means “would to Allah that. . “, is part of the language of the “infidel” that Spanish has unconsciously absorbed, and absolutely typifies the subjunctive mood. When we objected that so many routes into the subjunctive more or less obliterated the future tense, our teacher said. “What makes you think that there is a future? Who says that tomorrow you won’t wake up dead? Surely everything is God willing, and very little is certain?”

I don’t believe in God, but even I saw her point, and understood how arrogant the flat future tense must sound to a Spaniard, used to the future being tempered by the thought “If only”, “Oh that it might be so”.

I was listening the other day to the leader of the free world saying “YES WE CAN”, and I realised that this obsession with the indicative might be more American English than English English. At the moment of course, the  mouth of the American Empire is more evident than its trousers but it did occur to me, his middle name being Hussein, that the president might himself benefit from a touch of subjunctivitis.


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Posted by: puebloman | March 29, 2009

Transports of delight

We bought an old Citroen Berlingo from the village plumber three years ago, and while it costs us a lot to keep going we both agree it’s been as good as gold. It can carry our mango crop to market, the winter wood home,  sand cement and tiles from the  builders merchant, and after all this it can be spruced up and turned into a passable taxi if we need to ferry guests from the airport, or round Andaulcia, or up a mountain. Like God it is slow but exceeding sure, especially up precipitous village slopes.

It would be an understatement to say that it’s a bit beaten up. It’s a lot beaten up – every dent and scrape a testament to my driving. I don’t know why I have so many accidents in the village, because the advice of the entire population is always to hand whenever I get into difficulty. Men wave, signal, shrug and argue with each other, standing so close that I’m thankful not to have damaged one of them as I edge my way between a concrete wall, three mopeds and a Jeep. There are little dents around the headlights where I have clipped a car on a tight turn, and there are other little dents where cars have clipped me on a tight turn.There are long  languid scrapes from looking the wrong way while reversing, and prangs to both bumpers from applying the brake half a second too late. The streets were of course built for donkeys, not cars. Only one donkey actually, walking very slowly down a deserted street. Well, that’s my excuse.

The village vandals have also left their mark on the car. At first, knowing who it used to belong to, they left it alone just in case they were related to the new owner. When they realised it was me, they made their move. Too stupid to hot wire and steal the car and lacking the resources to “fence” stolen property, they contented themselves with picking off the top of the gearstick with a penknife and removing the door handle – actions clearly designed to demoralise the car itself.

Driving through narrow streets down to the church square in Almachar yesterday, I noticed an unusually large number of old men hanging around the bar. There was a  formality about them  and I heard the church bell.  As I enterd the square, elderly women were emerging in black jumpers and slacks. I assumed someone had died, which is a good bet because the population here is so ancient that someone usually has. But I was in a hurry. Fifteen minutes later I’d done my business and returned to the square. There was no one to be seen. As I gunned the car back up the hill I came nose to nose with the biggest funeral procession I’d ever seen – two hundred people led by hearse that entirely filled the street. When you meet another car in the street its the custom either to stand your ground (by looking casually out of the side window as though you have all the time in the world), or to wrench your gears into reverse, cream the car expertly backwards and slam it into a recess with a half centimetre gap between yourself and the wall. I looked at the crowd and recognised in it my many parking advisors. The hearse came to a standstill.  I reversed down the narrow slope, narrowly missing the precipice to my right and the rail to my left.  The cortage followed me down, removing any possibility to adjust or manoeuvre.  At the third attempt I slid into a siding to the gentle crunch of sheet metal, as the side of the car gave way against the wall. I like to think that, in spite of the sweat running down my back, I retained  a sense gravitas throughout, and an appropriate“lo siento” expression on my face.

The cortage solemnly passed by the Berlingo. As I placed my hand upon my heart and bowed my head, I wonderd vaugely whether the mood of the passing mouners was brought on by grief, or by by a deep sense of regret that if only they had been able to impart a little advice, the latest long scratch on the bodywork might have been avoided.

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Posted by: puebloman | March 26, 2009

Strawberry fair

At the moment, little hard expensive strawberries with white unripe centres are in all the shops. They remind me of the the Spanish strawberries I used to know in England. In the ’60s I was a teenager and lived in Warsash, a village in Hampshire and we grew stawberries – English and therefore the best in the world according to my parents. We grew Cambridge vigour and Cambridge favourites and another deep red one whose name I forget. We had to get them to market before the Kent crop came on. As soon as that happened the price crashed and it was only profitable to sell them pick-your-own, or in by the box at the roadside. When transport costs became criminally low and it made weired sense to fly fruit around the world, the Spanish farmers wiped us out with their forced unripe flavourless fruit, bred not for taste but for colour and to hit the English markets early and atttract a silly price from the stupid public.

Of course these were not the real Spanish strawberries that the Spanish reserve for themselves, and next month here in the fruit markets of Spain we will get the real thing as we do every year. Within a few weeks real strawberries will have come into their own, slowly and fully ripened, full of juice and with heady perfumes that remind you that smell is the most powerful and evocative sense of all. As the strawberries get better, so they become cheaper until suddenly bingo! Its strawberry jam week! Fruit is sold by the double kilo at knock down prices, the red juice  running everywhere like some bloody fiesta. The week following there will be nothing. Not a single strawberry. Cherries, on the other hand will be heaped up ready to be bottled brandied and turned into preserves. Plums will follow, and then peaches and paraguayas (little flat peaches that taste of scented sugar), these in turn will take us to the land of figs, mangoes,  muscat grapes and other mellow fuitfulnesses.

At the moment we are bagging up our last oranges. They are little and no good for sale because they are old varieties, thick skinned and full of pips. Lemons are as big as grapefruit this year because we have had water. I have just made a load of dark marmalade from sour oranges that grow on the unpruned sporting wood at the base of the trees. More of this anon. . .

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Posted by: puebloman | March 24, 2009

Bloody foreigners

A couple of British ex-pats are giving us a lift to the village. We are in the back of their 4 wheel-drive “Pajero”.

She: We live up there, see? Up that track, you can see the pool and the house behind. Its getting difficult out here, lots of us are going back. He hasn’t had any work for nine months. Have you?

He is silent

She: (indicating her husband) He’s a carpenter. Aren’t you? Pause We used to live down the coast in a village but they weren’t very friendly. We didn’t feel very welcome. I don’t know why. Don’t understand what was the matter with them. We were very outgoing. Used their bar and everything. Didn’t we?

He says nothing

She: We were always in that bar, I don’t know what they do now without us. We more or less ran that bar. Not just us ha! ha! I mean us expats. There were a lot of us there. But the villagers never made us feel at home. They were quite aggressive. We live up there in the campo now. You can choose who you see. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, do you?

He gazes out of the window

She: Nine months without work. The Brits are all going home and the ones that are left haven’t got any money, don’t want anything done. So we have to sell a car. Yes, yes I know what “pajero” means. We get little Spanish boys pointing and giggling. I don’t care. Well, they didn’t make it for the Spanish market did they?

I’m not going back to the UK mind. We’re originally from Bognor. Ha! “Bugger Bognor” who said that? We wouldn’t go back to Bognor for anything would we?

He sighs gently

She: I used to like Bognor. Nice place. Its horrible now. Full of foreigners. You can’t go into a bar without pushing past Poles and Slovaks, all sorts, all jabbering away so you cant understand what they are saying, taking the place over. Bloody foreigners. . .

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Posted by: puebloman | March 24, 2009

Tourist tracks 1

Agriculture apart (Andalucia is the largest exporter of organic fruit in Europe), the tourist industry is still more or less what keeps the province financially afloat. It was invented in Marbella and facilitated by Franco as a way of syphoning foreign currency into Spain during the time of sanctions and isolation. The Costa del Sol now stands as an enduring monument to unregulated corrupt enterprise –  a giant chalk-white high rise turd, shat by a giant seagull onto the sands of southern Spain.

Turn north into the hills however and everything changes. If you’re foreign you will need a phrase book, you will have to eat at lunchtime (mid afternoon) and not in the evening, you won’t be able to tell a shop from an ordinary house, and even if you can speak Spanish you won’t be able to understand anything anyone says. This is ‘rural tourism’ – pure, “authentic” and a world away from the union-jack shorts and lager-vomit of  “traditional” tourism. The junta here are determined that the hills will not end up like the coast. Last month the mayor of Alcaucin was hauled away in chains, his mattress found to be literally stuffed with the cash ‘bungs’ he received for turning a blind eye to illegal cortijos and swimming pools. More arrests are to follow and illegal builds have been served notice that they may be pulled down within a month without reference to legal process. In the past, Spanish law used to be so long winded that illegals often developed squatters rights while due process ground to its exceedingly slow conclusion. No more.

An altogether more upmarket  future is planned for the tourism of the hills – wholesome, healthy, cultural, educational, of the sort favoured by the young upwardly mobile and the solvent middle aged. To this end the junta have invented a number of genteel ‘routes’ , so that the discerning tourist can glean the greatest possible cultural bang for his increasingly meagre buck. There is, for example, the Route of the Moor, the Route of Wine, the Route of the Olive, and, bizarrely, the Route of the Avocado. Almachar and Cutar lie on the Ruta de la Pasa (the route of the raisin).  However, certain feckless young persons have found that by scraping one of the legs off the letter R they can create the letter P.  So “Ruta de la Pasa”  became “Puta de la Pasa”  or Whore of the Raisin. We now have Whore of the Moor, Whore of the Wine, Whore of the Olive, and, most disgusting of all, Whore of the Avocado. Although vandalism is a terrible thing, it does lighten up the landscape a bit while reminding us all of the fate that awaits the pure, when forced suddenly to make a living.

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Posted by: puebloman | March 13, 2009

"Living the dream" my daily routine in the South of Spain

From http://www.vivasiesta.com

My working day is very different from when in London. Here it’s all physical, practical and dependent on common sense – something I don’t have much of. Judy and I have monday meeting where we designate deadlines and responsible officers (Jude or me). We then go away with a list. Mine looks something like this: repot the vine, paint the front of the big house, repair ceilings as required, sand and varnish the woodwork, write a contract form for customers, wash sheets, iron sheets, do spanish homework, cook meal for guests, meet guests, serve meal. Finish concreting the terrace, change gas bottles, hire (buy?) a dehumidifier, cut wood from Paco Manchester’s dead almond grove, shop for veg at the Thursday market in Velez, plant out tomatoes, weed the mangoes, repair the irrigation, crop the broad beans, crop oranges, juice the lemons, buy more seedling lettuce. Update blog. Write a Rambling page for the website, confirm hospital appointment in Malaga and London. Order insulin online, restock bleach, scourers, red wine. . . . .

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Posted by: puebloman | March 12, 2009

Los Pajeros

We recently had the pleasure of the company of an old friend, Paul Griffiths, who is an hispanophile, musician and poet. Paul came to Andalucia to recover from a painful operation and we were able to take him to the hot health spa at Alhama de Granada. On his return he sent us this poem which I’d like to share. I don’t yet speak much Spanish, but it seems to have something of the feeling of “Hiawatha”. Could this man be the Spanish Longfellow? The tender sentiments shine out, obliterating the language barrier. Hope you like it!

¡Ay, Alhama de Granada!

Agua caliente, aire helado.

Sube la Sierra Tejeda,

Atravesé las más altas llanuras.

Con su ayuda famosa

Esperé que me recuperara.

Mis enfermedades desaparecerían

En el azufre que se arremolinara

En el agua enriquecido

De sus baños maravillosos.

¡Pero, ay, Alhama de Granada!

En buscando su almohada líquida

En que apoyar mi esperanza,

Encontré una vista grotesca,

Cuatro taxistas, pajeros,

Masturbándose en el agua sagrado.

¡Ay, Alhama de Granada!

¡Agua y reputación contaminadas!

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Posted by: puebloman | March 11, 2009

British immigrants 1: the “Guiri”

Everyone who doesn’t come from your village is a foreigner, especially Andalucians who come from the next village. All Scandinavians, Germans, Americans, Dutch and Belgians are assumed to be British because they speak English. To the chagran of the French, English (or probably American) is the lengua franca among foreigners in these parts. However, not all foriegners are “Guiris” (pronounced gheerees). The guiri is definitely a northern phenomenum. It refers to the non Spanish speaking flabby white person wearing baggy shorts and socks over flip flops, who goes bright red in the sun. Our Spanish/Australian friend tells us that it comes from Spaniards mishearing Brits who can’t or won’t speak Spanish asking “Where is? . . Where is? . .”

There is a debate among hispanophiles as to whether this term is a specific attack on the  “sons of the waves” or  just everyday racism. We were introduced to the word by a friend in the village who came round every Saturday morning for conversation. The idea was to do half in Spanish and half in English but we always gave up and resorted to scabby village gossip in “Spangish”. Our friend told us that  guiri wasn’t at all offensive. She thought it was fair comment. “Every week” she said “I tell my friends I am going to teach Spanish to the “guiris”.”And every week” I replied ” I tell my friends that the cateta (the peasant) is coming round to learn English”

She was furious and told  us she couldn’t possibly be a cateta because she was at university studying business. So that put us right. Her position was clear. So was ours.

For those who enjoy guiri spotting, guiris can be seen in large shoals cavorting between the saucy birthday cards in the English bookshop, and the export Daily Mail stand oustide Eroski’s near Velez-Malaga.

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