Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues!

by John Austin Richards

  A plug-in! Chrissie and I are both laughing, conjuring up images of Dennis the Menace, and Biffo the Bear. ‘A shoe-in, we say in English!’ I giggle. Harassed-woman ends her call, and more arguing continues, and I can tell by Marie’s demeanour that she is getting crosser by the minute. She turns to us, completely blanking Plug, ‘she say me, thees womans, that you must to pay moolta, I say she, no no you Eengliss not know regulation, but she estupid.’

  Chrissie, as always, is keen to deflect any conflict. ‘How much is the fine, the moolta, please?’

  ‘Four euros.’

  My wife smiles. Our friend is trying her best, we don’t want to undermine what she is trying to achieve, but surely we all have better things to be doing with our morning? ‘Well look, four euros is nothing, let us pay it and forget all about it. Please don’t worry, we can just pay them what we owe, and all go for a coffee?’

  She is not having it however. ‘Yees, four euros will pay for the coffee! No no, these persons are thieves, you not to pay four euros. I not accept thees!’

  Wondered when we’d get round to the Lad-Ronnies. No-one has called anyone else a bastardo yet, however, which is always something of a disappointment in any tax office. More heated argument ensues, when suddenly our translator snatches our papers from the desk. ‘We go upstairs, see bossy of she. Follow me please!’ And she strides from the room, leaving the poor woman open-mouthed, and us struggling to catch up. I cannot help a backwards glance however. She tried her best, did Plug, with the limited means available. And the forms were a different shade of green this year. ‘Muchas gracias!’ She won’t forget the day an Englishman called Jose Ocana Pastor paid her a visit, that’s for sure.

  Up the stairs, breathlessly, and into an identical room as the one below. Three staff, two male, one female, and a woman, who looks vaguely familiar, striding about in the middle. Suddenly, there is total commotion. ‘Cristina! How are you!’ And striding-woman has my wife in a bear-hug, and bafflingly, I get the same treatment. Who the hell IS this? Whoever it is, she is now dancing, and waving her arms around. In the tax office. 'Granny smokes, Granny drinks, Granny dances!' The office staff, plus Marie, look completely and utterly stunned. And I am rather bewildered, I don’t mind admitting.

  Luckily, my wife possesses almost total recall. Rather like an elephant, she never forgets, usually to my detriment. ‘Conchi! I am very well! How is your daughter Ana getting on in Coventry?’ Conchi? Ana? Coventry? Usually in these situations, and they happen more often than I care to admit, I just bluff, smile, go along with the conversation, and when the people move off down the street, ask ‘who the hell was that?’ Chrissie meanwhile is in full flow, and very often she will drop a few hints, to give me a chance to catch up. ‘That was a wonderful fiesta in your village last Spring, and didn’t we look fantastic in our flamenco dresses at La Romeria?’ Got it. Conchi is the mayor of the village where our friends Tony and Jo live, we met her last spring at the ‘Dancing on the Hillside’ fiesta, where I got chocolate sauce down my trousers, was trodden on by an old woman, and a bullfighter narrowly missed having his man-pieces removed. And again she was one of a group of women in spotty dresses who paraded round the town, where Chrissie was asked to join in. We also met the daughter who was going off to study English in the UK this summer.

  ‘So what are you doing here in this office?’ cries the mayor. My wife explains we are attempting to pay our ee-bee, but not having much luck, having incurred a moolta, so we have asked our good friend Marie to help us out. Horrified, Conchi spins on her heels and barks a rapid-fire broadside of Spanish at the senior of the two men, who is cowering behind his desk like a little whipped puppy. ‘Antonio here will complete all the paperwork, and of course there will be no moolta! I must go now, I am sure everything will be perfect for you, but any problems give me a call.’ And she glares witheringly at puppy-man, who has subsided even further into his chair. ‘And when you come to the village next, please call me!’ And she spins on her heels, kisses the three of us, and marches regally from the office. Blimey, that was some performance, and she’s not even the mayor of our town, just some dusty old pueblo in the back end of beyond.

  For a second or two nobody seems to know what to do next, then puppy-man catapults into life, chairs scraping as he selects three, dusting them off with his shirt-sleeve as he bids us to join him round the desk, then gallops off, returning several seconds later with a laptop, which he plugs in and fires into life. Marie meanwhile is rocking with laughter, ‘Cristina, how you do that? You incredible! I never see nothing like thees. La alcada, she free-end you?’ But Chrissie didn’t actually do anything, did she? We just walked into the room, and it happened. As it does so often here. The Spanish have that knack of making us feel like honoured guests, but hey, if it gets us off the moolta, bring it on. We have gone from being a confounded nuisance yesterday to royalty today, and it certainly feels good. I bet old Joey Shepherd never had his rates sorted out by the mayor, even if she is the mayor of somewhere else, that’s for sure. ‘Expect the unexpected’ has just happened again.

  Puppy-man Antonio is tapping furiously away on his laptop, all the while keeping up a running commentary for our friend, who then translates for our benefit. ‘So, ee-bee is to pay in Abril and Octubre each jeer, you bought you house in Octubre the last jeer, but Jose Ocana Pastor he pay ee-bee the last jeer, so you need pay Abril and Octubre thees jeer only.’

  What a blooming nice chap that Joe Shepherd is. I would buy him a pint, if I knew what he looked like, or indeed if he is still alive. ‘So how much do we actually owe now, please?’

  More consultations. ‘Antonio say me ees forty-one euros for Abril and the same for Octubre. So eighty two euros in total. There was to be a moolta for Abril because you pay later but Conchi La Alcada say must to cancel moolta as she free-end you.’

  I feel sheer utter relief coursing through my veins. I know the library gang said it would be around this amount, but to hear it from the horses mouth, or the puppy’s mouth in this case, is cause for wild celebration. Wild celebration every day, bearing in mind what we are saving. No wonder Del is always drunk…. We have brought the cash with us, sorry Chrissie has brought the cash with her, as I simply cannot be trusted not to leave it somewhere, on the assumption that if they don’t send printed bills through the post, they are unlikely to have a cashless payment system, and my wife starts to rummage through her bag for my wallet. Finally, we might actually be able to get this done and forget all about ee-bee until next Abril. Wrong!

  ‘Antonio he say me, are you in you house, now?’ I narrow my eyes and frown at Chrissie, who in turn frowns at Marie, who narrows her eyes and frowns at no-one in particular. Puppy-man meanwhile is waiting expectantly for a reply. From anyone, presumably. Is this whole thing a dream? Is there some sort of parallel universe-thing going on here? Will I actually wake up and find a rates demand for five-grand on the mat, and be tipped into bankruptcy?

  Chrissie is the first to regain the power of speech. ‘Er, no, we are here, we are not in our house, at the moment.’

  Another brief con-flab with puppy. ‘Antonio say me, are you in you house at middle-day, thees day?’ Mid-day? Probably, although right now I am rapidly losing all sense of time, or place. Get this paid, coffee with our friend, lunch under the fig-tree, so yes, home by mid-day, easily. But what does that have to do with paying the rates?

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Antonio he say me, Paco he go you house at middle-day.’

  ‘Who is Paco?’

  Marie turns and gestures towards the other member of staff, still seated behind his desk, who seems not to have done a stroke of anything this morning, let alone work.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Antonio he say me, Paco he go you house, give paper to you.’

  ‘Why, what paper?’

  ‘Ees paper, so you come here tomorrow, pay you ee-bee.’

  That is it. I have lost it. Sadly we are seated in the middle of the room, so there are no walls w
ithin reach, against which I can bang my head. Are they seriously suggesting we go home, open the door to Paco at middle-day, who is seated not ten feet from us at this precise moment, then waste another morning coming to this loonie-bin tomorrow? Do you know what? They actually are.

  My blood is frothing, a symptom my wife recognises. ‘Can we not pay this now, today? she smiles.

  Another brief consultation. ‘No, Antonio say me, papers not ready yet. Paco come you house, with papers, middle-day.’

  I am about to shove my chair violently back and leap through the nearest window, regardless of whether or not it is open, when suddenly I have a brain-wave. Doesn’t happen often, I have to tell you, but boy, when my brains start waving, look out. I turn to Chrissie. ‘Do you have my phone in your bag? Can I have it please? I am going to call Conchie, right now!’

  The effect is spectacular, like tossing a hand-grenade into the room. Puppy is tapping violently on his keyboard, while Paco sprints to the corner, where an ancient printer is spluttering into life. Blimey, they actually have technology here? All they need is a fax machine and they will be right up to date, with the twentieth century. Within seconds, our paperwork is ready. Puppy is on his feet, gesturing us to follow into the adjacent room. ‘You go’ I chuckle, ‘you have the money. I have done my bit!’

  Marie is full of praise, while I bask in the limelight. ‘Jonneee! How you do thees? Never I see Espanee peoples move rapido!’

  Minutes later the three of us are in the adjacent cafe, Chrissie clutching a hand-written receipt for eighty-two euros, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘So tell me’ she giggles, ‘what are you doing with Conchie’s number in your phone?’

  The Cheshire Cat couldn’t possibly grin any wider than I am right now. ‘You know very well I don’t have her number. I couldn’t even remember who she was, half an hour ago. It was a bluff. A giant, Spanish bluff!’ And the pair of us dissolve into more laughter.

  Sipping her coffee, Marie looks puzzled. ‘Bloof? Giant Espanee bloof? What thees, plees?’

  I am still on cloud nine. ‘Friends in high places’ I smile, squeezing her arm. ‘We have friends in high places!’

  CHAPTER 7. BUYING A CAR, SPANISH-STYLE.

  Autumn is upon us, and with it the turning of the year. The intense heat of high summer is past, and whilst the days are still pleasantly warm, it can go off chilly at nights now, and the evenings are drawing in. If there were any leaves to turn brown, no doubt they would have already done so, but the olive trees, and the scrubby pines which are the only other form of vegetation, are evergreen, so our vista from the patio is largely unchanged. The main difference is that the spectacular sunsets have moved slightly to the left, plus the sad fact I have had to dig out my slippers, a sure sign that winter is around the corner. Going barefoot is one of life’s pleasures here, but all good things and all that, and besides, it won’t be long until spring, hopefully.

  Having taken our UK-registered car back in August, we have been relying on the Harley to get us out and about at weekends, exploring the surrounding towns and villages, and trips to the beach, but with winter on the horizon and the prospect of a few rainy days, we need a form of transport which avoids us getting wet. A car, in other words. Nothing beats the wind-in-your-face sensation on a bike of course, and there will be days when we can still get out for a ride, hopefully, but we need to be pragmatic. Four wheels.

  Which presents a number of problems not usually encountered in the UK. The language barrier being the main one, obviously. Telephone calls are extremely difficult for us, it is much easier conversing, or attempting to converse, face-to-face. On the other hand, Phil the artist has a Spanish car, and he barely speaks a word. How did he manage that, I enquired. ‘There’s these English fellers selling Spanish cars, mate, they got websites an’ all that, one lives down Malaga way, we got ours there, juss ‘ave a look, see what they got, an’ give ‘em a ring. No need to speak the lingo, and they do all the paperwork.’ Indeed. And what a revelation that website was. ‘Wrecks & Bangers dot-com’ it should have been called, and nothing under a thousand euros. And surely dealing solely with British people somewhat defeats the object, the joys even, of living in a foreign country? I mean, paying our council tax took three mornings of our lives, and was a complete farce from start to finish, but what an experience when all said and done. So no, we will not be getting our next mode of transport via an expat website.

  We put out a few feelers at the library group of course, buscando coche barato, which I sincerely hope doesn’t translate as ‘I am looking for an expensive car’, and Jose kindly volunteered to act as intermediary and translator on our behalf. So that is the language barrier sorted, and hopefully we can add to our Spanish vocabulary along the way. All we have to do now is to find something suitable. Easier said than done, as many local cars here have surely travelled through a war-zone, at some stage in their lives. I am not talking about a few dings, dents or scrapes here, such as might be incurred in the supermarket car-park, but serious collision damage. Whole bumpers held on by gaffer-tape. Missing headlights. Huge jagged abrasions along the entire side of the vehicle. Aside from clearly-new cars, most of those in our budget look as if they have been taken outside and given a severe kicking. Punishment beatings, with iron bars. Knee-cappings and the like. Presumably they have insurance here, but doesn’t anyone ever make a claim? Get the damage repaired? Or are they content to drive around in something which might actually fall to pieces at any minute? Jose provided the answer. ‘People here get money from insurance, and do repairs they-self.’ Repairs? Can whacking a bit of sticky tape on a headlight be classed as a repair? Don’t they have things like ‘approved garages’ here, or ‘insurance assessors’? Presumably not. Still, avoiding these death-traps should be relatively easy. We will not be considering any vehicles featuring adhesive strips on the bodywork.

  I think that much of the damage to these severely battered cars is caused by the way many Spanish park, which in my view can only be described as being without any respect or consideration for other road-users, or pedestrians, whatsoever. Double-parking is normal, triple is not uncommon, they park on pavements, even zebra-crossings, and it is one aspect of life here I truly dislike. They shoe-horn their vehicles into the tiniest spaces, on occasions literally shunting cars already parked a few inches, to squeeze into the space. Many of the apartment blocks in the new part of town have communal underground parking garages, all of which display the circular ‘no parking’ sign with a red cross on a blue background, which when we first came here I found extremely strange. Why? It is clearly a garage, surely no-one is going to block it, are they? Wrong! They do, regularly, which is why you often hear the sound of irritable honking drifting on the breeze, from irate drivers who have been blocked in, or out. ‘Vic the Fish’ told me only a few weeks ago that he had returned home one evening to find his garage entrance blocked by some inconsiderate moron, meaning that Vic was unable to go anywhere, and was stuck in the street. At that moment the ancient old-bill came around the corner and proceeded to severely berate Vic, demanding to see his license and insurance, during which time the offending driver returned and simply drove away, without any sanction from the cops whatsoever. Unbelievable.

  One day recently I did have cause to smile, however. Walking to the bank past the six-way junction known as the ‘Old Fountain’, I passed the usual Spanish melee, with cars parked in every conceivable space, delivery lorries blocking entrances, pavements and crossings, vehicles blocked in, waiting to get out, others trying to squeeze in, mums on the school run, spectators shouting advice, and incredibly, one car completely blocking the street while the driver conducted a leisurely chat with a pedestrian, seemingly oblivious to the stream of traffic backed up behind him, all honking furiously. Incredible. And there is a perfectly good car park a hundred yards down the street, but no, these selfish individuals have to park right outside the shop or office they need to visit, and they don’t care about the utter chaos they are causing. Exit
ing the bank a few minutes later, imagine my delight to see the police arriving on the scene. The Guardia Civil too, not the ancient local lot. This is going to be good. There must be at least a dozen infringements taking place right now, and the cops are going to have a field day. And so am I, watching the tickets being written, fixed to windscreens, just as the miscreants come dashing back, imploring the Bobbies to tear up the tickets.

  Selecting a park bench with the best view, I watched, in anticipation, as the two coppers extracted themselves slowly from their vehicle, which incidentally was parked on the pavement as barely a square inch of road was available, stretched luxuriously, pulled their jackets from the back seat, fitted their cloth caps unhurriedly to their heads, gazed expectantly across the square, and began a leisurely consultation. What were they saying? You go over that side, start nicking that lot, while I nab these on this side? No. With a friendly wave at a few passers-by, they sauntered into the cafe. Distraught, I was. What a let-down.

  Another problem is the complete lack of information provided with the cars you see parked up with a ‘for sale’ sign on the windscreen. A phone number only. No price, nothing about the service history, mileage, how long the MOT is, how many previous owners, the kind of information you would expect to see on a car in the UK. Why? I cannot think of a single reason not to provide as much information as possible, if you do actually want to sell the thing. What a waste of everyone’s time to phone up, only to find they are asking some ridiculous price. And you don’t seem to be able to tell the age of the vehicle from the number-plate, as you can in the UK. The value of a fifty-five-plate Ford Fiesta in Britain, for example, is not going to vary by more than a hundred pounds or so, is it? Here, you could be enquiring about something with an age-range of five years or more. Even the used-car garages dotted around the town don’t display prices. Truly bizarre. There is one called ‘Cars From One-Thousand Euros’, but not a single price-sticker on any of them. Waste of time. It is one of my life-rules that if a vendor of anything cannot be bothered to display the price, than I cannot be bothered to look at it. Call me ‘Victor Meldrew' if you will, and Chrissie certainly does, but there you go. Grumpy old man R me!