by Parks, Alan
“OK, where do we have to go?” I asked.
“No, no. ¡Urgencia! An ambulance will take you,” he replied.
“But my car is here, I can take her or I can follow behind.”
“No, you must go in the ambulance to look after her, in case she is sick. Someone will bring you back to Montoro.”
“Keith, if we can’t get home, I’ll give you a call later if you don’t mind.”
“No problem.”
So we were seated in the waiting area, given a piece of paper for the ambulance and the hospital. After about 10 minutes, a man we recognised as one of the local farmers came in. His name was Juan and he was wearing a bright yellow jacket with ‘Urgencias’ printed on it. Juan was the ambulance driver. He directed us to the ambulance and helped Lorna inside. He wanted her to lie on the trolley, but we insisted she sat up otherwise she would have been travelsick as well. Juan wasn’t happy, and he made sure I had a large carrier bag to hand.
We shot through the traffic with the orange lights flashing and half an hour later we arrived at the hospital. Juan helped us in and handed over the paperwork then took us through a security section where we were given visitor stickers. Finally we were shown into a waiting room, and told to sit and wait for Lorna’s name to be called. As a funny coincidence, Juan (the Spanish could really do with a few new names to add to their list), the man from the Montoro post office, was in the seat next to us.
After an hour or so of waiting, Lorna was starting to feel a little better. Another hour later we were called in, but by now the pain had gone (I don’t know what was in the injection the doctor gave her but we should get some of it!) Because there was no pain the nurses would not do an ultrasound. We were sent away with a piece of paper and told to come straight to the hospital if it happened again. We went to the front desk and explained that we had been brought from Montoro by ambulance and we needed to get back there. The man looked at us as though we were mad but told us to wait by the front door. We went and waited. And waited. After another hour we were told, “I am afraid you are not an emergency anymore, it may be another three hours.” What a nightmare. So we had to call Keith (again) and he kindly came and collected us.
After this incident Lorna was pain-free for a while, but then ‘Dolores’ returned. This time we didn’t wait so long but headed directly to the hospital.
Just as we pulled into the car park, Lorna said, “You know what, I think it’s getting better” So we decided to sit for a few minutes. “I think it’s going. There’s no point going in now; we know they won’t do anything unless the pain is bad.”
So we headed home. Big mistake. By the time we got there the pain had returned, not as bad, but bad enough. We decided to ride it out at home, which took a couple more hours but it did eventually wear off.
We have since done some research on gallstones. The gall bladder is essentially a fat filter, so Lorna tries to eat less greasy food and she tries not to eat too much late in the evening as that seems to trigger an attack. Thankfully she has been ‘Dolores’ free for a while now. Let’s hope it stays that way!
Chapter 12
Iceland and Expat-Land
We were really enjoying spending time with Ricardo and Rita; it was nice for us to find some good friends here in Spain with whom we could relax. One day, Rita suggested an outing. We had heard there was an Iceland (the supermarket, not the country) down on the coast and also, on a Saturday morning, there was a car boot sale.
So one Saturday morning, Ricardo pulled up at our house at the very unsociable hour of 8am and we started the journey to the coast. The drive from the Olive Mill takes just over a couple of hours; there is a new motorway and the roads are always very quiet. Normally we encounter a bit of traffic at Cordoba, but nothing like the roads in the UK. After Cordoba, it is quiet until we hit Malaga but now there is a new toll road that takes you up into the hills, bypassing all the winding roads. On a clear day the view is breathtaking and sometimes you have five lanes of traffic all to yourself.
We reached the market area in Fuengirola, at about 10.30am and found a place to park amongst the English cars and German camper vans.
“As it is a day out, why we not get a breakfast?” suggested Ricardo.
“Sounds like a great idea to me,” I said. So we found a café just along the road from the market where people were sitting outside, tucking into their full English. Without wishing to be stereotypical, you could pick out the expats and the tourists a mile off; we were surrounded by sandals-with-socks, pink sunburn and tattoos. We sat down at a table, and a waitress came over to take our order.
“Yeah?” she asked. She was wearing a dirty apron, smeared in grease, and her hair was tied back. A few years ago there would probably have been a cigarette hanging from her lips. We ordered four breakfasts.
“’Ow do you want your eggs?” she asked.
“’Crambled,” replied Ricardo.
We sat there relaxing for a while after the long drive and waiting for our food to arrive. It was a strange sensation to be surrounded by English people and not to feel the urge to talk to anyone. Our food arrived: huge plates of bacon, sausages, fried bread and all the trimmings. It was, of course, swimming in grease and fat. Delicious!
After breakfast we headed back up the road to the market. It was a warm day for the time of year and the tourists were out in force, bare-chested and wearing shorts. It was a huge market, made up of people selling everything from second-hand goods to high-quality furniture. There were also men of African origin selling pirate DVDs and fake handbags on blankets with string tied to the corners so if the police arrived they could pick up their stuff and run. The Spaniards call them ‘The Looky Looky Men’.
There were many stands run by animal charities, mostly selling second-hand books to raise money for the centres looking after abandoned cats and dogs. At one of these, we found a box containing three small kittens that somebody had apparently just found by the rubbish bins.
“Oh my God! Ricardo look!” said Rita who had just fallen in love. They already had one cat but she thought they had room for another, and these little ones looked so helpless. I am sure the lady on the stall wouldn’t have thanked me but the first thought that went through my mind was that our Barb had just had kittens, one of which was a beautiful grey colour. Rita could choose one and at least she would know where they came from. I managed to move her on from the stand, although not before both she and Lorna bought a bag-full of books each.
Whilst it was good to be out for the day, none of us made much in the way of purchases: a few books, a bright orange handbag (Lorna) and an electronic tennis racket for killing flies (me). That was about it.
Our next stop was Iceland. We had heard about this Iceland shop from other people in Montoro but we didn’t know if it was going to be small with a few English bits or a real superstore frozen food emporium as in the UK. We pulled into the car park, and it was heaving. Think Saturday afternoon at (British supermarket) Asda. We were not used to this: afternoon equals siesta where we live and is usually a quiet time in the shops. Iceland, however, was bursting at the seams and was indeed the real deal, complete with stacked freezers and shelves packed with the Cadbury and Walkers brands that we sometimes crave. Shoppers’ trolleys were full to the brim. The place was staffed by English people which was strange, made even stranger when Ricardo went to ask where the toilets were in Spanish. He got the reply, “Eh? Sorry love, I don’t speak the lingo. You will have to ask someone else.” Ricardo was so surprised he couldn’t even get the words out in English!
We bought two trolleys-full of food that we had comfortably lived without for about three years. Although it was nice to be able to buy a few home comforts, expat-land really wasn’t for us and, by mid-afternoon, we were glad to be heading home. Especially Rita, who was excited to come back to our house to see the kittens.
After a couple of hours of driving (me) and snoring (everyone else), we were bouncing along our track. Rita was the first a
wake and so keen to see the kittens she almost ran out of the car. We took her to see Barb and her babies, whom we had named Silva, Pedro and Iker, after members of the victorious Spanish football team. They were going to be Wayne, Frank and Gerrard but those players rather let us down.
Barb had hidden the kittens behind the swimming pool filter and under an old discarded pallet but, as we had handled all of them and they were used to us, we were able to get them out. They were only about four weeks old, and it was immediately apparent that Rita had fallen in love with the one we were calling Silva. His grey coat with faint tortoiseshell markings belied the fact that he was a feral, and most likely inbred, kitten. His blue eyes set the grey off wonderfully. As soon as he was in her hands, I knew that Silva would find a home with Rita. Although it would be sad to see him go, it would be nice as well as we would be able to see him grow up in a domestic environment. We agreed that in a few weeks time, the two Rs could come and collect him.
As the date grew nearer, Lorna began getting a little upset, not because Silva was going but because she was worried how Barb would feel. My instinct was that she would be relieved: one less kitten to feed.
On the appointed day, Rita and Ricardo came for lunch, and we agreed not to see the kittens until it was time to go, and then just scoop Silva up into a travel bag. We had a nice lunch then went to get him. Could I find him? No. Eventually we heard a mewing beneath the decking and, after a bit of gentle food-induced persuasion, I managed to grab him and put him in the bag before he really knew what had happened. Mission accomplished.
I know, initially, Rita and Ricardo had a few issues with Silva settling in to his new surroundings, not least because of their other cat always taking him down a peg or two. But he has since become a beautiful, strong animal with the appetite of a horse and retains his hunting instincts. Rita told us that one day she was unloading the tumble dryer and found a starling, still intact, amongst her washing (his head, however, was back to front).
When he was taken to the vet for his injections, Silva (by now renamed Zuli) was cooed over. There was even a suggestion that he was a pedigree Russian Blue. Nope, just a plain country moggie. It is lovely to see Zuli grow up, as Pedro disappeared a few months later and we think little Iker got hit by a car, as I found him lying dead on the road outside and had to bury him.
So now all three kittens were gone.
They scooped me up and took me to a strange house, with a big bully of a cat. Every time I tried to do anything, he would pounce on me and punch me in the face.
This new place is good, though. I am never hungry, and there is always somewhere soft to sleep. I feel safe here. Sometimes I head out at night and go looking for a bit of action but when it gets cold in the mornings, there is nothing better I like than to crawl under my owners’ duvet, and have a cuddle.
There was a time, a while ago, when I saw a pretty lady cat across the road, and I thought she would make a nice girlfriend. But one day I went somewhere strange for a few hours and when I came back I just didn’t feel the same way about her. Now I don’t have the urge to go out so much, I am happy to stay at home and get fat!
Zuli (Silva)
Chapter 13
Lost in Translation
The ferriteria is quite possibly the scariest shop any expat living in Spain has to venture in to. In Montoro, it sells practically everything you could ever need, from a metre of string to generators, plastic tubing and even chainsaws. The shop is like a warehouse, with a counter at the front manned by three men; two brothers and one other whom I call ‘jolly man’. When I go there, I always stand in line hoping for jolly man as both brothers are quite austere and somewhat intimidating. While I wait in line, I try to listen to conversations to help my Spanish, but it is impossible. The men (and it is always men) line up in the shop, the air thick with cigarette smoke, and there is a chorus of grunts complete with hand gestures. Then comes time to barter the quoted price, although unless I am there with a local I just tend to pay full whack and get out quickly. Usually I hope that the volume of people in the shop will have reduced by the time my turn comes.
On one occasion, as I approached the counter, I could feel eyes boring into me from behind. Having looked up what I wanted before I came out, I knew what I needed to say: “Una grifa, por favor.” Proud of myself, I smiled at the grumpier of the two brothers. He looked back at me.
“¿Una grifa?”
I glanced sideways to see an elderly man with his mouth hanging open, cigarette stuck to his lip, staring intently at me. It was the same reaction wherever I looked.
“Si, una grifa, por favor.”
The miserable man behind the counter suddenly cracked a smile, and everyone in the shop started laughing. I didn’t really know what to do so I grabbed a piece of paper from the top of the counter, and as best as I could drew a picture of a tap.
“Ah, uno grif-O!” said the salesman. “Grif-O! Grif-A es….” He then pretended to smoke while rolling his eyes and swaying.
When I got home, I looked up the word grifa: it is slang for spliff! No wonder the old guys in the shop were giving me the evil eye.
On another occasion, Lorna dragged me out to the local market as she wanted to buy some cushions for the apartment sofa before our holiday rentals started. We knew the word for cushions: ‘cojines’. We wandered around the crowded market, stopping occasionally to look at Moroccan–manned stalls selling material and cushions. They sometimes know a little English. I tend to scarper quickly, leaving Lorna to chat or to try and buy something. Even if they speak to us in English, there is a dilemma. Do you answer in English or Spanish? Sometimes what comes out is neither, and is in fact a terrible mixture of both. Which neither party understands. Better to stick to Spanish.
From a few metres away, I saw Lorna find some cushions she liked, pointing them out to the stall-holder.
“Cuatro de tu cojones, por favor,” she said. The laughter was instantaneous. Lorna had ‘balls-ed’ up big time. Literally. She had asked the man for four of his testicles. I had to go and rescue her, and we scuttled away, cushion-free, amidst the ongoing hilarity. “Cojones is balls. Cushions is cojines,” I explained.
“Oh dear,” she said.
With that we decided we could do with a little bit of help. We had heard about some Spanish lessons in the casa de la juventud in the town provided by the ayuntamiento. Apparently it is obligatory for them to provide lessons for local foreigners.
We went along one day to meet Romana, the lady we had been told was teaching the classes. We were, of course, expecting someone who spoke English to be in charge. Nope, wrong again. The teacher was Romanian (maybe a giveaway in the name). As most of the foreigners in Montoro are Romanians, in town to work on the olives, of course it made sense that the Spanish teacher would be too.
So we were sat down in front of a PC and directed to a programme with exercises to help with Spanish vocabulary and grammar. This was fine, and we started to pick up some basics. Occasionally Romana would pop over to check how we were doing, and then try testing us on some grammar. We normally failed. Although we were still struggling, we at least felt this was a dedicated time to concentrate 100% on our Spanish. At home there was always something a bit more interesting to do.
After a few weeks, we arrived to find the normal classroom closed. A man came out of the office and directed us down a corridor into a room where we found Romana and some of her (Romanian) students sitting around a table. She had printed out worksheets for us and handed them over. We sat down and looked at the papers and then at each other. It was all a bit advanced for us, including grammatical tests and words we had never seen before. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the papers, Romana invited us over to sit at the table with the Romanians and attempt a conversation. Of course we talked about the weather, where we were from and where we lived. Lorna was starting to really get in to it and, as she did, her confidence increased and she pronounced to the table that she was caliente. The other students tri
ed to contain their amusement but Romana burst into fits of laughter. She managed to explain to us that Lorna had, in fact, told the group that was feeling ‘a little fruity’ as opposed to ‘hot’. That was our last ever lesson with Romana, and our Spanish has never recovered.
For a few months, I played tennis with Jorge and little Jorge. It was really just an evening out with some friendly rallies, not full-on matches. Little Jorge was learning English and his grasp of the language was good: he would make fun of me while playing, calling me a potato or a chip. After a few weeks, I thought I would make him laugh, and knowing I had heard Ramon call Miguel a ‘little chicken’, I called Jorge a pollita. He stood there stunned while little Jorge giggled hysterically. Jorge beckoned me towards him and in a quiet voice said, “Alan, please don’t call me that. Especially here, with all these people.”
“I’m only joking with you, Jorge,” I said. “Just calling you a little chicken.”
“No, you are talking about a little willy”, he whispered. “Polla is the word for penis and pollo is the word for chicken; you have mixed them up.”
I looked around and felt my face go bright red. Little Jorge was still in hysterics and had to be told to concentrate on the tennis by his dad.
If you have ever sat in a bar people-watching in the depths of Andalucia, you would be forgiven for thinking that a fight is always imminent. Men talk in raised voices, pushing each other in the chest to make a point or grabbing someone to get their attention. Hands will be waving around wildly and fingers pointed. The next moment, the conversation is over and the same men are hugging and kissing each other.
