But
fiestas, of course, must go on. And here's The Local's view of the
ten weirdest in Spain. I was pleased to note that two of these take
place here in Galicia. And one of them is in the birthplace of the
lovely Ester's husband, Jacobo. I must attend it this year. Actually,
there's another weird event much closer to home, at the monastery in
Lerez I can see from my window. On the feast-day of some saint or
other, the faithful walk round the church, throwing stones over the
roof. And what goes up must come down. Meaning injuries. I doubt this
is the only place in Spain this happens but a quick search hasn't
thrown up anything.
I
see the UK government is bringing in on-the-spot fines for
'anti-social' driving. Offences will include sticking in the middle
lane of a 3-lane motorway, and tailgating. The latter doesn't seem to
be an offence here in Spain. On the contrary, you'd be forgiven for
thinking it was compulsory. Similarly, UK officers will be able to
fine motorists who don't give way at junctions, something which
almost never happens here on the autopistas. There's no suggestion
that listening to podcasts via earphones will become an offence in
the UK. In contrast, again, you get a 200 euro fine for this here in
spain, some readers may recall.
The
Spanish government is planning to make it an offence for cyclists not
to wear a helmet. There's a groundswell of opposition to this but
Madrid will surely prevail as it'll be yet another easy source of
income for the police. Ironically, no one in their right mind would
ride a bike on the roads here; they prefer the safer pavements. Safer
for them, of course, if not for us. Only today there was a sidewalk meeting
between a lamppost, a (helmeted) cyclist and me. Guess who gave
away.
As it happens, I
was thinking of cyclists this week, when noting (afresh) that the
Spanish use the word humanización for 'pedestrianisation'.
I can't help wondering whether this avoidance of any word stemming
from the Latin for 'foot' reflects the fact we pedestrians have
to share the pavements with not only cyclists (infant and adults) but
also people on skates, scooters, snowboards and even bloody segways. Another contrast - in the UK the segway is classified as a powered
vehicle, subject to road traffic law - and banned as it doesn't meet
safety standards
I
touched on the Galician language - Gallego/Galego - the other day.
Here in Galicia, it's co-official with Spanish, usually referred to
as Castellano. This means it should get equal treatment. In practice,
it gets far more than that, at least in places where the mayor is from
the Galician Nationalist Party, as here in Pontevedra. The result is
that he who pays the piper calls the tune and so our monthly Guide of Events is entirely in Gallego. As were every one of the labels for the fotos of early 20th century Pontevedra I
enjoyed in the Turismo office today. And this is a city where possibly 5% of the
population use it as their first language. Must go down well with visitors from other parts of Spain.
In
English, you can pronounce the letter H as either aitch or
haitch. Only the former is correct but it seems the latter is
taking over. Presumably because, as in so much else,
today's teachers have no idea of what is right and wrong. Ditto
hóspitle and hospitúl. My personal bugbear.
Finally
. . . A sort of treat. My novelist daughter, Faye, is in Guatamala,
researching color locale for her third novel. She's sent me
today the start of her travel diary and I set this out below. It's
crap but worth a quick read.
1.
The Journey: Madrid - New York - Miami - Guatemala City
I
hope one day to stop surprising myself with the risks I’ll take for
an extra 20 minutes in bed. Missing the cercanía by four seconds put
me on edge, as I’d been told to get to the airport three hours
before my flight (after missing the previous day‘s flight). And
those three hours had already taken a philosophical shaving.
Turned
out that I was well-advised though, as there was only one person
working the AA desk, and she took 40 minutes to attend to the first
people in the queue. I was assured several times that this woman was
the only person among the relaxed and plentiful AA staff who was
trained to change a ticket.
Nothing
was improved by my having drunk a bottle of red wine the night
before. On waking I had soaked up 600mg of ibuprofen with a mug of
Frosties. Then on the plane, early turbulence persuaded me that I’d
need at least 4mg of Valium to stop sweating. Which all made for a
queasy in-flight experience. An aisle seat seemed to confirm my
recent streak of bad luck. But that was abated by the meal, which was
arrestingly edible: a nice pasta dish with a cajun crust, quality
biscuits, fresh salad, and a mini Twix. Nicer than any meal I’ve
ever had on American soil.
Then
the Valium kicked, and I slept until woken by my resurrected
headache.
Changing
plans in JFK, I got the usual kick from the New York bonhomie,
especially in those Janus-faced customs bastards. I bought a copy of
Vanity Fair, my infrequent and only magazine indulgence. Why have we
nothing that comes close to those US magazines in the UK? We used to
have The Face, but that was when I was a teenager. Nothing serious
but fun ever replaced it.
It
was a lovely day in New York and I had to resist quite a loud voice
that told me to abandon my connecting flight, stroll into the city,
and throw myself on my friend Faris’s mercy.
I
didn’t, and was rewarded with a window seat for the Miami flight -
but Lady Luck kept me humble by sitting me next to the kind of man
whose breath you can smell from a foot away when he’s not even
facing you. I resented him awhile. Then thought about my fraught,
shower-free morning, and realised I’d probably got my own back on
him without even trying. How beautiful life can be. It occurred to me
that if I was a real citizen of the world, I’d tell someone like
that how badly they stink. It’s the kind of thing that could turn a
life around - and they’d never have to see me again. Anyway,
Reader, I didn’t. I fashioned myself a pair of tissue nose plugs.
My
second coffee of the day had me feeling relieved that I don’t have
to worry about my children’s children.
Miami
has got to be one of the strangest places in the world. Everyone
operates in a dreamlike state as though they can’t decide which
mood to be in. Looking for a hair product (having had mine ripped
untimely from my rucksack in my aborted flight fiasco), I found
myself at a small Kiehl’s counter. The assistant drifted over in a
trance, as though it was the first time she’d ever assisted
someone. We started talking, but the smell of my pizza sent her over
the brink of distraction, and we somehow came to a tacit agreement
whereby she would keep feeding my with free samples while I gave her
the exact coordinates of Pizza Hut. In the airport. Where she works.
Boarding
my third flight of the day, I wondered how I’d managed to keep hold
of all my belongings. I wondered too, whether this was the longest
day of my life. It was certainly up there, its main competition being
the time I went with my lovely friend Claire to Rome. I’d been up
all night and we’d arrived at the airport to find our flight
delayed by hours. Iberia, that quintessence of Spain, refused to give
us even a free coffee for our troubles. I didn’t really mind, but
Claire took it badly. She decided we should put in an official
complaint, and that I should be the one to do it because my Spanish
was better. I went from being too tired to care to coming close to a
fist fight with the rudest customer service representative in Spain.
And that is saying something.
Then
there was the time when the prudent Ciara and I flew to Antigua and
were delayed by hours in Paris. (I say prudent, but that was the end
of Ciara’s prudence for the holiday, as I recall.) Anyway, the
night before, she had prudently decided not to come out in London -
and had found me in the shower earlier that morning drinking pink
champagne. I fell over in Heathrow and was almost sick on the plane.
Then those sweaty hours of delay in Paris. And that was all before
the frank Frenchman on the final plane informed us that the six weeks
of work we had planned on cruise ships were unlikely to happen
because it was hurricane season. That was a long day.
The
Miami plane was frisky, but at least I didn’t arrive in a tropical
thunderstorm, as feared.
Guatemala
City: Day (night) 1
The
airport may as well have been Madrid. And the little I saw from the
cab by night seemed pretty low key compared to Mexico City and Buenos
Aires. But perhaps we just skirted it. Before falling asleep, I
chatted to the cab driver about the city. He said the big change in
recent years has been the number of violent street gangs. Apparently
they’re composed of young men who moved to LA, formed gangs there
for self-protection/a job, then were deported back to Guatemala with
no communication from the US government as to their criminal status
(stati?). I suspect resentment of the USA is going to be a bit of a
theme here. Conundrum: obviously I’d really like to see these
tattooed thugs (maras), but don’t want to go near them. I’m
thinking of arranging a kind of city safari, in which an armoured
vehicle drives me around the barrios mas chungos.
Antigua:
Day 2
I
woke up at 5:52 - and still didn’t see the bloody dawn. Doubtless
it was her and her trucks that woke me.
An
hour and a half until breakfast with just me and my thoughts. A most
unusual situation. Starving hungry, I scoffed everything I had left
over in my bag from the plane(s), and when it finally came, ate a
breakfast of which even Ciara would have been proud: beans, tomatoes,
potatoes, fruit and pancakes.
I
suspect that Antigua is Central America lite, if not superlite. It’s
a town of cobbled streets, low colonial houses and quiet people who
don’t stare at my hair. No one’s even really tried to sell me
anything. Except an American woman who stopped me on her bike to give
me a leaflet about massages. She expressed surprise at my speaking
Spanish (which she must have gauged from our greeting). ‘Ahora
podemos hablar,’ she said as she rode off. Well technically, I
thought, we could speak before.
In
the afternoon I had coffee and juice in the little garden patio of a
place called Fernando’s Kaffee. My waiter was a boy of about ten.
Apart from the outfit, he had an arresting aspect of the man about
him. When I asked if he spoke English, he told me ’very little’
in a way that suggested he’d rather that was an end to the subject,
but his professionalism would bring it out if I really needed it.
Later, he made a wry comment about the rain as he took in the
cushions. But it was as though he had other things on his mind, like
love and taxes.
Walking,
in the evening, still felt like an unnatural mode of transport. I
took myself a short distance to a little bistro called Hector’s,
sat at the bar and ordered a Portobello mushroom quiche, for Tom.
That, the breakfast already mentioned, and a lunch of ‘traditional’
chicken and vegetable soup doused with lime, made the sum of the
day’s food squarely delicious. Over dinner, sat among romantic
couples, I read Tess of the D’Urbervilles, which I like better as
Hardy gets darker and more misanthropic. No one’s attempted to make
friends with me, and I’ve attempted to make friends with no one,
which leaves the friend situation at a kind of stalemate (if you’ll
pardon the pun). This is okay with me as, the three tourists who I’ve
interacted with so far have been wankers. Another upshot is I might
get through a couple of the zillion classics on my Kindle.
I
suppose I should say something about the potted ferns and hibiscus
flowers, and yellow butterflies, and mists over the mountains, and
fireworks over the 18th century Spanish churches, and women in Mayan
skirts selling fruit, and mynah birds on the rooftops, and the balmy
days and cool, damp nights, and the tranquil traffic over the
cobbles. Consider it said.
Antigua:
Day 3
I
have a lovely room with one whole wall of windows, a deliciously hard
bed with six pillows, and a private plant-decked terrace, which makes
me feel like a visiting dignitary - or a woman widowed on her
honeymoon but without the pain, or pesky police investigations. I
might take my mosquito net down though, since I’ve only seen one
mosquito - and that was ore interested in a plant than my blood.
I
was awake at 5:41 this morning. Still no dawn witness, but boy do I
feel virtuous. Effortless virtue is always a delight. The only
problem was my Nazi stomach, which growled like a cheated tiger at
the idea of waiting two hours for breakfast.
This
- no alcohol nor company, cold showers, early mornings, and eggy
breakfasts reaching beyond my visual range - sits oddly with me, but
I like it. I’m always happy to try on a new personality for a
while. Actually, the solitude isn’t that new. This past year has
taught me nothing if not to spend days on my own.
A
mildly apocalyptic Sunday morning: while helicopters roamed the moody
skies, the priest in the cathedral preached over a sound system to a
motley crew of believers: men in surf T-shirts, highland women, and
families with beautifully kempt matching daughters. I asked the
tourist police about the helicopters, but they said they had no idea.
So I went to the supermarket to buy some more Gorilla Snot hair gel
and some factor 30 sun cream for Sophie. Not because Sophie worries
about me getting skin cancer, but because she says if I’m too brown
when I get back, she won’t let me stay at her house.
The
town was full of Guatemalan tourists with their four-by fours, fat
bellies, and poodles in T-shirts. I wonder where they fit into the
picture. The maids in the hostel not being very forthcoming, I paid a
guide to give me the low down not on the 18th century convent we were
in but the country as it is right now. He told me that the power lies
in the hands of around thirty-five families. The whole sorry history
of Guatemala - of Latin America - is one of horrific social
injustice, with the violence of the civil war having been replaced by
the violence of drug cartels and extortionists.
It’s
hard to reconcile your everyday Guatemalan with the tales of the
guerrillas and murderous street gangs. In general they seem to be in
a bit of a daze. Not the conflicted daze of the Miamians, but just
rather subdued. I remember Paul Theroux saying he got practically
nothing from them, they were so laconic. I wouldn’t go that far.
They can be quite chatty, but almost as an afterthought.
Having
spent my lunch money on the guide, I tried to get by on banana cake
and crisps. When dinner finally came, I devoured it like a tiger
who’d been kept for weeks on a lettuce farm. Don’t know what’s
going on with my body.
I
saw a border collie today. He gave me a Ryanesque sniff as he passed.
That was worth the company of several tourists, who seem to feel the
need to pummel me with their travel CV while I stare at them blankly.
Antigua:
Day 4
Fucking
travellers. Over breakfast I had to listen to a big English girl on a
video call showing someone her spots. If anything could have put me
off my food, it would have been that. Also, how many times do people
have to say they love each other these days?
Having
been told there were no shuttle buses going to the coast (not a
massive tourist pull anyway, let alone in low season), I got the news
mid-morning that there was one leaving at 1pm. So I got my shoes
fixed by a tiny, impossibly worn-looking man, and stocked up on
banana bread.
In
two hours we went from rain and shrouded mountains to flat land
covered with sugarcane, and heavy heat, and villages with pigs and
chickens, and endless mango trees. The roadside shops here are
painted with the colours and logos of three companies: Pepsi,
Movistar, and Tigo (another mobile phone company). The driver
politely withstood my constant questions (think me aged four, Dad) -
‘What’s that tree, bird, factory, crop, smell, etc.?’ He
probably started making it up.
My
eye’s getting more cynical as I start reading about Guatemala’s
civil war. I’m reading a book called The Art of Political Murder,
about the assassination of a bishop who presided over a huge enquiry
into the massacres after peace was declared in 1996 at the price of
an amnesty for the army. At a glance, Guatemala’s history would
seem to be the history of Latin America writ small: they get rid of
the Spanish, who are replaced by a succession of brutal dictators,
who bleed the country of everything, normally with some help from the
church. The US gets involved, buying up the fruit and the transport
industries, which become one and the same thing. Then fears of
communism lead to them instating some heavily right-wing dictator
(disregarding the intricately linked CIA and industry captains,
because they must be immaterial) and injecting some guerrilla action
into the hills. Meanwhile, the mad dictator makes sure his army
generals are worthy of the name, and jump to: soldiers ripping babies
out of women’s stomachs and cutting the heads off village children
with machetes.
The
church is an interesting player in this case, because it was a cleric
who started the investigations for justice. It made me think how, in
general, there aren’t two sides of a conflict, but four - because
within each side you have the moderates and extremists, who must hate
each other almost as much as the enemy. Maybe I’m wrong about this.
I
had stuffed tortillas for dinner - my first avocado in nearly four
days! I’m pleased to report they were delicious. Sam seems to be
under the impression that I eat like a bird. So I’d like to know
how many bloody quetzales she’d be spending on food here because
I’m not going to be able to afford to do anything but eat at this
rate. And that’s before the trekking.
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