by Parks, Alan
There is one particular gesture I have picked up; we call it ‘Spanish hands’. It is basically a shrug of the shoulders with both hands turned upwards and I tend to use it if a driver in front of me is behaving strangely. Then Lorna will say, “Why are you doing the Spanish hands?”
Two of my other favourites are; using your index and middle finger to run down your face from just below your eyes. This means Estoy a dos vela, which translates as, ‘I am down to two candles’ (basically, ‘I’m broke’). This gesture can be seen regularly since the financial crisis. My other favourite, and also Miguel’s, is the hand shaken loosely at the wrist, which means mucho. It is normally used, by Miguel anyway, to signify either that it is very hot or that something is very expensive. Usually accompanied by a deeply-exhaled whistle.
Things are a bit better now. Lorna’s Zumba classes have helped and on a weekly basis she has conversations with the women ranging from menopause problems to lack of money and miserable husbands. There are lots of hand gestures and some are more patient than others. Sometimes they even forget we are not Spanish, and if we manage to answer something properly in their language, that’s it, they go off speaking at 100mph and we don’t understand a thing. One of the important things is not to be afraid to try. OK, you might make an embarrassing mistake but you will only do it once. The Spanish love a trier. And hand gestures can get you a long way.
Chapter 14
Crisis? What Crisis?
Now we know there is a worldwide financial crisis going on. We have the Internet and TV and are constantly updated via the media about the state of the world. We are told the EU is on the brink of collapse, and that Spain is going to be declared bankrupt.
In Montoro, we have noticed a few differences over the years we have lived here. There are a few more ‘For Sale’ signs up around the town, and we have seen a few shops close down. Conversely, though, new ones have also opened up. When Lorna’s Zumba class attendance has been down and we have asked the ladies why, they always say, “Zee crisis, zee crisis!” In contrast, when we go to Mercadona (Spanish supermarket) before the weekend, or on a special fiesta or Saints day, we marvel at the trolley-loads of food people are buying: whole jamon, two or three at a time, goodies for the BBQ and the kids. When the bill is totted up, sometimes the cashiers ask for hundreds of Euros. The response is a shrug and the money is usually handed over in cash from a moth-eaten wallet. The farmers and the old guys in town still wear their 1970’s suits and corduroy trousers, but I don’t think that has changed because of the crisis - it’s just what they wear. We have also noticed a few old cars starting to reappear, like Renault 4s and Citroen 2CVs. Cheap to run and fix, you see, and kept in the garage for just this sort of time. We hear how crime is up in the campo (countryside), holiday homes are being robbed and there is even violence committed against the owners. All we really see around us are a few more huertos (allotments) where people grow extra food. Crime, however, has not completely passed us by…
One day, when Lorna was in the UK (as I have said before, things always happen when she is away), I went to the garage to fill the car with petrol then check the post box and collect some shopping. I went to the garage first, filled up as normal, and went in and paid. As I drove away up to the Stop sign, I felt my pocket to check my wallet was there. It wasn’t. I pulled over to the side of the road and searched the car. Nothing. I drove back to the garage, but there was no sign of it. Two of the attendants tried to talk to me in Spanish, and then went and checked the forecourt cameras. The female manager then came back and said she could see me drop my wallet, and a man in the car at the pump next to me lean out, grab it, and then drive off.
“Shit! All my cards, driving licence; everything is in there,” I said. She nodded sympathetically but I knew she didn’t understand.
I now had a problem: I had to cancel all my cards ASAP, and I only had our pay-as-you-go Spanish mobile which was, of course, out of credit. I went back into town to the only place I could think of: Jorge’s pharmacy. Thankfully he was there and let me use the telephone. I called Lorna, asking her to phone the card companies and to tell them what had happened. They were not very helpful. Although they did put a stop on the cards, they insisted on speaking to me before sending out new ones. So I had no way of getting any money. Lorna wasn’t due back for a few days, but I managed to scrape together enough cash to keep myself and the animals fed and watered.
“You need to tell the police of this,” Jorge had said to me.
“Maybe you could come with us and help translate?” I asked in return.
“Of course. But we must go to the police of the nearest town, Pedro Abad.”
“OK, when Lorna comes back we will go.”
So we did. A few days later, we picked up Jorge and went to the police station. Jorge was dressed very formally (maybe police and doctors are of equal status here?). The policeman we spoke to, as it happened, spoke a little bit of English. He had been to the UK for work, but his English was very rusty.
“Erm, I am very sorry for your problem. I don’t think we can find your purse…”
“Wallet!” I said.
“…wallet, but we will write down your details and speak to the garage.”
His colleague at the other desk kept his head down not wanting to get involved.
We left, not really expecting anything to happen, but at least I could re-order my driving licence and cards. A few weeks later when we were collecting our mail, Juan, the postmaster, called us over.
“I have something for you,” he said. (Juan’s English is very good.) “It is from the Guardia Civil, in Sevilla.”
Sure enough, I opened the package to find my wallet with cards intact - the only thing missing was the cash. What great service from the Guardia Civil!
So I suppose that could have been crisis-related and, although inconvenient, we have been fortunate that that has been our only real ‘crime’ experience.
One day, the dogs were going mad and I went outside to find a couple of men snooping around in our stable. When I confronted them, they said they were looking for a drink of water and a sandwich. I sent them away with a bottle of water, and locked the gate behind them. Since then we always lock up.
Undoubtedly, however, the crisis has made things harder for us as we struggle to bring in enough income as it is. The alpacas haven’t generated any money, although since my first book came out, we have been able to sell some bags of their fleece. I have had local people contact me and ask about fleece for spinning and felting, and we have had a couple of blind dates, meetings at unusual points on the motorway, all because they have now heard about Alan, ‘The Alpaca Man’!
We have also started promoting our alpacas for those looking for a day out in the countryside whereby they can come and meet the animals, learn a little about them and even take them for a walk. What could be better than that, an alpaca walk in the sunshine of Andalucia? (Sound good? Get in touch, you might love it!) One day soon we hope we will be able to start paying back the people who have been so kind in supporting us over the last five years: it has not been easy but we love our life here and would hate to return to the rat race!
Chapter 15
Dogs and Onions
After two bad winters with really terrible rain, 2011 was the opposite. We had a little in the autumn, but barely enough to soften the ground. Then the sun came out and stayed out for the whole of the winter. This was great for our solar and meant we didn’t need the generator, so life was a bit cheaper and we were even able to use our washing machine. It did, however, mean that the land was dry and the farmers were preparing for a bad olive season. No rain, no olives. Our track turned into a dust bath and, in a stiff breeze, you had to close your eyes otherwise you got a face-full. Walking the dogs became a rather dirty affair. Geri spent most of the winter looking like a ghost after falling asleep in dust patches and waking up covered in the stuff.
Nowadays we have made life easier for ourselves by walking the dogs in two gro
ups. Before, I used to hold both the mastins and Lorna would hang on for dear life to the three smaller dogs. But since Geri has had her injuries and has become increasingly frail, we try to avoid putting her in a situation where she might get knocked over by one of the big dogs, or Miliko in one of his mad moments.
One day, when we were taking them all out as a group and had got through the difficulty and excitement of getting all their leads on, with Miliko running rings around us and the mastins trying to pull us over. All that before we even got out of the gate. About halfway along our route, which goes up the hill to Ramon’s gate where we turn around and come back, Lorna decided she fancied a change. The mastins had been behaving themselves, so she said, “I want to lead Blue and Arthur for a while.”
“Are you sure?” I replied doubtfully.
“Yes, they’ll be fine,” she said smiling.
Everything was going smoothly and we were nearly home but, just as we got to about 100 yards from our gate, Arthur caught the scent of something. He started pulling. Blue joined in. I had the three little dogs and I tried to run over to Lorna to help as she was getting dragged down the bank towards an ominous looking pile of fresh horse dung. All of a sudden, with a mighty heave, both dogs broke free and charged at the tasty treat. I relaxed a little, thinking it would be easy to catch them now at least, and passed the small dogs over to Lorna. As I sauntered over to Blue and Arthur, barking came from Ramon’s house at the top of the hill. The mastins bolted through thick undergrowth and prickles and I chased them as they zigzagged across the olive groves. Then they seemed to catch the scent of something else. We don’t let our dogs run free as we have heard stories of dogs eating poison or getting caught in hunters’ traps. Chasing after them up the hill, I was beginning to flag, but they, in particular Arthur, showed no sign of slowing down.
I walked back to the path for a rest and called them, hoping they would tire. After a few minutes, they headed back in my direction and I breathed a sigh of relief. As they got close, however, Ramon’s dog barked again. This time they bounded up the hill and headed for his gates.
They were out of sight by the time I reached the gates, which were purely for show as there was no fence connected on either side. Things were ominously quiet and I was worried as we know they have chickens and I was not sure what the dogs would do if they got in with them. All of a sudden I saw Blue, digging under a bush. I wasn’t sure what she had found but I launched myself into a full-on rugby tackle and landed on top of her. Arthur was nowhere to be seen. At that moment, there was a commotion out of sight up at the house, and I could hear lots of barking. Arthur came running from the house as if being chased by something huge. I don’t mind admitting I was a little scared. He saw me and headed for me and, just at that moment, a tiny Yorkshire terrier emerged barking for all his life. Arthur cowered behind me (probably more in shame than fear) so I got hold of his lead and dragged both disgraced dogs home.
The little Yorkie strutted back up to the house as though he was the king of the world.
Semana Santa, or Easter, was soon upon us, the next on the calendar of never-ending Spanish festivals. Montoro was buzzing with people cleaning and preparing the churches, and teenagers practising in their bands for the parades. One day we were at home and heard the toot of a car horn outside. We could see Ramon’s son, Ramon Jr, with some other people. I went out to see what they wanted.
“¿Tienecebolla?”
There were four in the car, two guys and two girls, and they were looking at me expectantly.
“Perdón, mi Español es no bueno, no comprendo.”
They started laughing, repeating the phrase over and over. “Tienecebolla. Tienecebolla.” It was so quick I couldn’t catch any of it.
Out of the blue, one of the girls said, “On-i-on.”
“Ah,” I said just as Lorna emerged, dictionary in hand.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I think they want to know if we want any of their onions,” I said to her quietly.
“Si, vale.”
We stood there, looking at each other nervously waiting for them to produce some onions; they were obviously waiting for something else. Then we all started laughing. One of the girls took the dictionary from Lorna, and found the translation for, “Have you got any?”
The penny dropped. They wanted onions from us. I ran in and grabbed a couple and handed them over with a smile. We had finally got there.
“Esta noche, fiesta a mi casa, whiskey y cebolla. Venga, adiós.”
“I think we have just been invited to a whiskey and onion party tonight,” I whispered to Lorna.
“Vale. Hasta luego.”
We waved them off.
“Do we go? What is a whiskey and onion party going to be like?”
“Maybe we should go, just to be courteous. We don’t have to stay too long,” she replied.
So we waited till the sun had set and we could see lights on at Ramon’s finca, and drove up the hill, slightly apprehensive. We pulled in through the useless gates, left wide open for the world and his wife, and drove up the ‘driveway’. It was of course bumpy and dusty. We passed a variety of fruit trees and a few dogs tied to olive trees before arriving at an open area with the white façade of a typical Spanish finca.
We drove up the side of the house. To our surprise there was a large parking area of flat concrete and tiles, complete with a massive carport containing five cars, a Jet-Ski, a pedalo and an inflatable boat. There were also trailers, a tractor and all the necessary ploughs and tools required for farm life. Our previous visitors were sitting around an open fire, which had mugs and a cooking pot hanging on a metal construction above it. The outside of this side of the house was painted yellow, with a new roof and smart, almost modern, wall tiles decorating the door surrounds. It was like a luxury villa you would find on an estate somewhere near the coast. Ramon appeared and offered us drinks. Whiskey, of course, was available, as were beer and sherry. I had my usual Coca-Cola.
Sherry has proved our nemesis. In Montoro, there have been numerous occasions where we have been unable to order a glass of white wine in a bar. We always try and ask for ‘vino blanco’ but what we get is ‘fino blanco’… i.e. sherry. Even Ricardo has tried to order white wine and still ended up with sherry. On the most recent occasion, I said to the barman, “Vino blanco. NO FINO. Vino.”
He said, “Vale, no problema. Solo vino normal.”
Two minutes later a sherry arrived. All the men in the bars drink it, so I can only assume they think we want the same.
We spent the next couple of hours at the party trying to make small talk: they were all very friendly but no one else arrived and, at midnight, we made our excuses and went to leave. Ramon stopped us, however, and told us to wait as he disappeared inside. He brought out a beautiful little bull terrier puppy whom he said was called Rocky. He was beautiful but we managed to stay strong and got in the car quickly. Dog-less.
We have often wondered if any other guests turned up to that party, or if that was the extent of the fiesta. As for Rocky, well I’ll tell you more about him later!
Chapter 16
Lows
Our house had remained on the market since we decided to put it up for sale. Although we love our life here at the Olive Mill, we now realise we need better land for the alpacas. Lorna also has a yearning to be back within spitting distance of the sea. We had so far attracted very little interest, apart from someone from the US. However, we were called by Sarah, our estate agent, to say that there was a couple who had seen our house online, had fallen in love with it and had requested a viewing. Lorna was in the UK attending her goddaughter’s wedding, and on her return we were left with two weeks to get the place looking shipshape.
We had been given the email address of the couple and a quick Google search revealed that the man was in fact a musician and was going to be in Cordoba for the summer guitar festival. We emailed and invited them to stay over and to join us for a barbecue on the evening
of their visit, so they could appreciate the full ‘experience’. We were pretty excited as the Olive Mill, being so remote and peaceful, is a great location for anybody who dabbles in any kind of creative work; writing, music or art. Lorna and I spent a hot two weeks from first light till dusk, weeding, up ladders painting, on our knees cleaning. By the day of the viewing, we were exhausted.
As always, we had some last-minute stuff to do, but the couple was not due to arrive until after lunch so we were up early, sweeping and moving gravel so that everything could be seen in its best possible light. We had an early lunch, and then sat around waiting for the phone call to say they were on their way. The plan was, as usual, I would go out and meet them so they didn’t get lost. So there we were, waiting and nervous. Time passed. 2 o’clock… 3 o’clock. Maybe they were having a long lunch somewhere in town? 4 o’clock… 5 o’clock. We decided to phone Sarah to see if she could get in touch with them as we had no contact number. 6 o’clock. Sarah phoned back to say she had had no luck getting through, but had left a message asking them to contact her. At around 9 o’clock we gave up on them and went to bed shattered and pretty fed up.
First thing in the morning we checked our email to see if we had had any news from either Sarah or the prospective buyers, and yes there was a reply from them. It was timed at 5 am, so obviously they didn’t want to get a quick response. This is what it said:
Dear Alan and Lorna,
We did indeed come to the finca yesterday afternoon. We arrived at around 1 pm and parked outside, just near the swimming pool, past the alpaca cages. We waited outside for 10 minutes but with no welcoming committee there to meet us, and with the property surrounded by barbed wire fencing and no sign of an entrance, we decided to leave. We also found the location much too remote for us. xxx and xxx
