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

by John Austin Richards

  So. Battered old wrecks with no prices. What to do? Luckily, Jose has the solution. ‘You should to look on Meel Anoon-seeos. Ees website with many things for sale, for all Espain, but you can to focus you looky at Andalucia, even Santa Marta I think. Thee website will have all information on cars for sale, re-viz-e-onny, ee-tee-oobie, thees things mas important. How you say re-viz-e-onny in Eengliss plees?’ Not the foggiest, obviously. Sounds a bit like ‘revision’ to me, but I have been wrong before…

  ‘Can you explain what re-viz-whatever actually is please? Is it a part on a car?’

  Jose smiles patiently at my ignorance. ‘Re-viz-e-onny is where take you car to consessionario, he look you assy-etty.’

  Not my assy-etty he isn’t, that’s for damn sure. Hang on a minute, assy-etty is the word they use for olive oil, isn’t it? Do cars run on olive oil here? I mean, in the UK people have converted their diesels to run on chip-shop fat, haven’t they? And Santa Marta is awash with olive oil. There must be half a dozen factories in the town alone, apart from the ones in the little villages. And there was me thinking they were drizzling it on their salads.

  ‘Assy-etty?’

  Jose is clearly beginning to regret volunteering for this job. But he is practicing his English, isn’t he? Expressed a desire to work in the UK, seeing as how there is sod-all here for qualified engineers. ‘Yees, you must to put assy-etty in you mow-tor, or you mow-tor go boof!’ Engine oil? They use the same word for olive oil and Castrol GTX? Who knew?

  ‘I think you are talking about having the car serviced, as we say in the UK. They change the engine oil, filter and various other things. Put a stamp in the little book which comes with the car. A service, as we say.’

  Jose seems puzzled, however. ‘You say me at Chreesmas in chur you have service in Eengland?’

  ‘Very good! Quite correct, you have a church service, and you service your car. We also expect good service in a shop, or bar, for example.’ See what I mean? English lessons. Far more use to him, if he ever goes to the UK, than chasing a lump of cheese down a hill, for sure. ‘So what is this ee-tee thing, then?’

  ‘Ee-tee-oobie. Ees where you take you car for exam, make sure you car segur, how you say, safety?’

  An MOT? They have MOT's here? Could have fooled me. How often do they have them, once a decade? I can just imagine a Spanish MOT. ‘Is you car safety?’ ‘Yees.’ ‘OK you have passed! See you in two-thousand-and-twenty-five!’ Oh my gaad, as Amador might have said. ‘So how do you spell this ee-tee-oobie, please?’

  Neither of us has a pen or paper, so Jose takes my hand and traces the letters I.T.V. Of course! Suddenly, everything drops into place. When we first came to Spain, we kept noticing road signs saying ITV. Just that, nothing else. No clue as to whether or not Coronation Street was being filmed on location in Andalucia. Ken Barlow having a tapas, followed by a siesta. So we followed a sign one day, and were amazed to be directed to a garage, full of cars, people milling around, the usual Spanish anarchy. What a let-down. No sign of Elsie Tanner anywhere.

  So we have some research to do this weekend, searching Meel Anoon-seeos. And what are we looking for exactly? Well, as proud owners of a £350 Volvo currently enjoying an extended break in the UK, we clearly are not worried about having something up-to-date, all the bells and whistles, and latest gizmos. Had our fair share of new cars over the years, been there, done that. No, we are seeking a vehicle to match our lifestyle. Slightly old-fashioned, something to convey us from A to B, in safety of course, but in style? Nah. Under a grand or thereabouts, long ee-tee-oobie, history of re-viz-e-onny if possible, low mileage, or whatever they call ‘mileage’ in this land of kilometres, an absence of shrapnel and definitely no duck-tape. Gathered round the laptop that evening, it proves simplicity itself to narrow down the search to the town and surrounds, in our price bracket, revealing a surprising number of choices. The adverts are completely in Spanish of course but many of the descriptions are easy to follow. There is one however which proves beyond our powers of translation. No gasta nada. Not a clue. I am on clicking duties, so Chrissie is in charge of translations. A few flicks through her trusty dictionary, (see what I mean about slightly old-fashioned?) a few puzzled frowns, followed by her answer. ‘Don’t use nothing.’ Would be nice, wouldn’t it, a car that don’t use nothing, but I am guessing it translates as ‘economic’?

  We only need something small, and on the second page is a Renault, dark blue, don’t use nothing apparently but there is no mention of the ee-tee-oobie whatsoever. The owner probably forgot I imagine, and the photos are somewhat blurred so it is difficult to tell if there is any evidence of strife on the paintwork, but one to put on the ‘possible’ list certainly.

  The following page however reveals what appears to be a gem. A little white SEAT, albeit from a different century, but which nevertheless matches all of our criteria. The bodywork looks perfect too, unless of course they have just given it a quick coat of Dulux Brilliant White gloss, but one to enquire about, for sure. A quick call to Jose confirms he is free the following morning to make a few phone calls before the conversation class, so with anticipation building we embark on our regular Sunday evening walk, round the city walls, past the castle, to a church perched dramatically on the side of the cliff, with spectacular views over the surrounding countryside. Santa Marta, like many towns and villages in this part of Spain, was built on high ground, no doubt to observe advancing invaders, and we love to watch the sun slipping slowly behind the olive groves, and the lights twinkling in the other villages silhouetted against the western sky. Our route home is always interesting too, down precipitous cobbled pathways and streets, a warren of zig-zags and white cottages clinging precariously to the hillside, requiring total concentration to avoid a painful tumble.

  Rounding one particularly acute bend, we are astonished to see a little white car perched at an impossible angle. THE SEAT! It is the same one for sure, as I recognise part of the registration number, JW, which were my grandfather’s initials. What were the chances of that? An omen, surely. In real-life it seems to be even better than the photos, and if it drives as good as it looks, we might have found our first Spanish car. Just a shame it is impossible to tell where the owner might live, any one of a dozen or so cottages might be it, or none at all, a different street maybe. Anyway, it is getting too dark to see, almost, so excitedly we head home and pray no-one else buys it overnight.

  Meeting up with Jose the following morning, we ask him to phone about the Renault first, as actually it is newer than the SEAT, and we want to make enquires about the both, if only for the experience. The vendor answers his call, we are more or less able to follow Jose’s questions about the re-viz-e-onny and ee-tee-oobie, when suddenly his voice drops and he ends the call. Something not right, for sure. ‘Thees man he say me, car not have ee-tee-oobie. I say he why, and he say not to worry as not necessary to have ee-tee-oobie in the village.’

  ‘So did the ITV simply expire, and he didn’t bother to renew it?’

  ‘What thees expire plees?’

  ‘Sorry Jose! Did it run-out?’

  ‘What thees run-out plees?’

  ‘Expire. To finish. To end. To run-out.’

  ‘Ah sorree! No, he say me, have car much years but not have ee-tee-oobie never!’

  ‘So is this usual here for people to drive round without ITV's?’

  ‘Si. Yees, in the small villages, yees.’

  Blimey. Explains a lot, really, your car is written-off, but as long as it still runs, who cares? Explains all these death-traps driving about. But hang on a minute. If the car is not technically legal, wouldn’t the insurance company just wriggle-out of paying, in the event of an accident? A sobering thought.

  ‘OK Jose, we have this second car we really like the look of, a SEAT, we actually saw it last night in the street, the Meel Anoon-seeos advert said the ITV was until August, which is good, so maybe you could arrange for us to have a test-drive please?’ Our friend does, and arranges a me
eting for one PM, after the conversation group. Chrissie gives a little skip of excitement, and squeezes my hand. ‘Vamos a mirar un coche!’

  Indeed we are going to look at a car, and Jose is coming with us. And there it is, sparkling white at the kerbside! And standing next to it, a large middle-aged man with a dark, swarthy complexion. Our friend is completely taken aback. ‘Oh my gaad, is a gypsy, no to buy car from he!’

  No, it is Valentine!’ I giggle.

  Jose is astonished. ‘You know thees man?’ I do indeed. I know him very well as it happens. Valentine is a neighbour of Del-Boy, and often popped out for a chat when we were working on my Cockney mate’s house, last winter. Del has known him for years, they have done bits of business together, and Valentine will often knock on his door of an evening bearing a number of litres of beer, which they will then consume amid the squalor of what passes for a sitting room chez-Del. Thus mollified, I introduce the two fellows, and a number of minutes pass in the usual Spanish fashion, big hearty handshakes, a back-slap for me and a bear-hug for Chrissie. Right, what do we do now? It is years since I last bought a car. I am no mechanic of course but I know how they work, and I smile inwardly as I recall my father’s advice about peering at an engine. ‘If it looks like oily knitting, give it a miss!’ I needn’t have worried, however, Valentine lifts the bonnet methodically, like a little old lady extracting half a dozen eggs from her basket, revealing the motor, not sparkling having just been wiped off for the occasion, but exactly what you would expect for a machine dating from the late twentieth century. So far so good.

  ‘Could you ask if we can take the car for a drive, please?’ Jose does, a short conversation ensues, but it seems the news is not good.

  ‘He say me sorree, but he no have seguros. How you say seguros in Eengliss plees?’

  We know this one of course, having arranged insurance on the house last year. ‘Insurance. He has no insurance on this car?’ And I wag my finger at Valentine in a mock telling-off gesture.

  He throws back his head and bellows with laughter, waving his arms dismissively. ‘Not important. There is no need for insurance, in the village!’

  For pity’s sake! What is it with this place, and these drivers? Does no-one observe the law around here? And Valentine works for the council. We often see him driving around in a dumper truck. Shouldn’t he be setting an example? I can just picture the headline in the local paper. ‘Council digger-driver fined for having no car insurance.’ Lose his job, surely? And what are the ancient old-Bill doing about it? Oh well, scrub that last bit. We know what the ancient old-Bill are doing. Sat in the nick with their feet up, eating sandwiches and watching TV. Daft question. The thing is however, we really need a test-drive, I am not prepared to buy it without one, so either we find a solution, or we walk away, which would be a huge disappointment.

  It appears we are worrying about mere trifles however. The situation has resolved itself, apparently. Stuff the insurance, as they say in Santa Marta. Valentine pulls back the front seat, Chrissie and Jose climb into the back, I slip into the passenger side, our swarthy friend behind the wheel, and away we go, across the cobbled square, past the police station, and out towards the dual-carriageway on the main road. The car performs perfectly, I even get to drive for a short period (weren’t me officer, it were the fat bloke) and before long we are back in the town. Right. Time to haggle. Never felt comfortable doing that to be honest, but when in Rome and all that, and besides, the tyres look as if they will need replacing in a few thousand miles. I fix Valentine with my best telling-off look again. ‘Take off a hundred for the tyres and we have a deal!’

  He roars with laughter again, and turns to examine the rubber, caressing the tread like he is applying talc to a baby’s bottom. ‘Nothing wrong with the tyres!’ he cries, in a voice which would surely attract every copper south of Madrid, if they happened to be awake, that is. Actually, considering people here don’t bother with MOT’s or insurance, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they run their tyres down to the canvas. These are nowhere near that of course but I am not letting this go. Jose meanwhile is nattering away about the neumaticos, and eventually turns to me and confirms that Valentine has agreed to knock off fifty. Seems fair, ask for tuppence, take a penny as my grandad JW used to say. We have a deal, and a little white SEAT.

  ‘So what happens now, Jose? I need to dash to the bank before they close, to get the cash out. Do we meet up with Valentine later to sign the log-book and pay the money?’

  ‘What ees log book plees?’

  ‘Sorry Jose, the log-book is the registration document.’

  ‘What ees registration document plees?’

  Blimey. No insurance or MOT’s, bald tyres and no log-books. What’s the betting there is no road tax, either? ‘The paperwork for the car?

  ‘No, what we must to do is visit to Hester.’

  Hester? Is this Valentine’s wife? Does she keep the paperwork, and the money? OK. I am a bloke, right? I know that Valentine supports Real Madrid. His favourite beer is San Miguel. He can assemble a motorcycle gearbox. He can shout OLE! when he belches. But does he have a wife, or children? Not a clue. The subject has never arisen.

  Jose senses my confusion. ‘Hester must to give you permisso de circulo.’ Permission to what? To circle? Am I buying a little white SEAT, or a Jumbo Jet? Am I expected to join a holding-pattern at thirty-thousand feet above Heathrow? ‘Yees, we go see Hester at six in the afternoon, thees day. I meet you here, at six minus quarter?’

  Been a long old morning, hasn’t it? And we still have the joys of extracting some cash from the bank. Still, I am really excited, and I can tell Chrissie is too. Our first Spanish car. See Hester, sign the log-book or get circling permission, pay over the money, and maybe out for a little spin tonight. Right. Bank, fig tree, asleep.

  At six minus quarter I assemble again with Jose, Chrissie having strangely concluded she has better things to do, to find he has brought his car this time. Clearly we are driving to see Hester? If she is Valentine’s wife, don’t they live in that jumble of streets on the side of the cliff? Where it is almost impossible to drive, unless you have a little white SEAT, of course? And a strange name, Hester, in these parts, where just about everyone seems to be called Anna, Maria, Jose or Antonio. A very small pool of names, in Spain, which can get mighty confusing at times, I can tell you. We know Big-Anna, Little-Anna, Teacher-Anna, Crazy-Anna and Anna-Who-Lives-Opposite-Ronan, and I am sure there are a few more lurking around somewhere. Jose drives almost to the edge of town, then parks up outside a rank of shops, where Valentine is waiting outside an office with the name Gestor above the door. Hmmmm. Through the window I can see a young woman sitting behind a desk, dealing with a couple of scruffy-looking blokes. ‘Is that Hester, Jose?’ I enquire.

  ‘Yees, thees Hester, but she name Anna.’ Fair enough, another Anna to add to the list. Hester-Anna. So who is this woman? Clearly not Valentine’s wife. What is her function? The three of us file into the office, everyone then bids everyone else good evening, and we sit down to wait our turn. Eventually, after the scruffy blokes have exhausted their quota of about a million questions, it is our turn. Jose, Valentine and Hester-Anna all start talking excitedly at once, the way Spanish people occasionally do, when suddenly Hester-Anna turns to me. ‘You knee?’

  Oh for Pete’s sake. Not my bloody knees again. Is this my knee knee, or my Rhodesia knee she is talking about? I turn beseechingly to Jose. ‘What does she want my knee for?’

  ‘You no have you knee? Where your knee plees?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Why you not have you knee with you person?’

  What can I say? Because we are British, and are simply not used to this ridiculous notion of carrying our flipping knees around in our pockets? Not really, a bit rude actually. We are in someone else’s country, and have to respect their customs. But still, we don’t carry i.d. do we? I smile sheepishly, in an oh silly me, I seem to have forgotten it way, then turn to Jose. ‘Do
I have to go back home, to collect my knee?’

  ‘Ah not worry. We drive to you house.’

  Ten minutes later, perspiring freely, because Jose understandably didn’t want to drive up our street, so I had to walk, in thirty degrees, we are back at Hester-Anna’s office. Valentine is still waiting patently, but it appears we have lost our place to the two scruffy blokes again, who have clearly realised they were several questions short of their quota. Eventually they leave, reluctantly, and we are back in front of her desk. I hand her my knee, which she studies patiently, especially the Austin John Richards bit. ‘Nombre?’

  ‘Si.’ That is indeed my name, but not necessarily in the right order, to paraphrase Eric Morecambe.

  Jose is unimpressed, however. ‘Sorree, she ask you nombre. You name.’

  I am missing something here, clearly, but no idea what. ‘Yes, those are my names, John Austin Richards. They made a slight mistake on the form.’ And I shrug in a sorry but what can you do? fashion.

  ‘No, she need you nombre, and you apple-eedo.’