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

by John Austin Richards

  Indeed there is. Not your average British porker, pink with stubby nose, and curly tail. Not your Gloucester Old Spot, or your Saddle-back. No, a Spanish boar, thick, black, wiry coat, with conical snout, nose-ring, and a spangly, diamante, pink collar. Must be a hell of a size collar too, a belt, probably, judging by the neck on the beast, which starts grubbing around in the gutter in a fruitless search for acorns, or whatever it is pigs eat.

  The opposite passenger door crashes open and out jumps a middle-aged bloke in a black leather suit, a ring in his nose, and a punk-rocker, fanned-Mohawk hairstyle, like someone on their way to a Johnny Rotten reunion, although thankfully without the diamante collar. Do people take pigs to Sex Pistols gigs these days? Who knows. And seriously, I haven’t seen a haircut like this since about 1976. Is this the height of fashion in this neck of the woods? Is it actually true what they say about Spain being fifty years behind? When were the Pistols actually out? Forty years ago, for sure. Not my era, really, being more of a peaceful long-hair, although I do remember dancing to ‘Pretty Vacant’ at the Locarno ballroom once, and getting the shirt ripped off my back for my trouble. Mohawk-man whips a heavy-duty steel dog-chain out of his pocket and starts waving it in a large circle, like a skinhead on Brighton seafront on a Bank Holiday Monday, then crouches down crying out ‘Lola!, Lola!’ And up trots piggy, like a little puppy-dog, allowing Mohawk to attach the lead. Lola? Isn’t that the same name as the shop? Is this a publicity stunt? And is a Bimba about to appear, whatever a Bimba might actually be? Is Sid Viscous about to rock-up, with, say, a goat on a lead? Is all of this actually happening, or were those black flecks in the meatballs, which I assumed were pepper-grounds, something more wacky?

  Mohawk stands up, leans into the back of the taxi, emerging with a dog bowl and a litre bottle of water, which he proceeds to splash into the vessel, allowing Lola to gulp gratefully. He then slams both doors, taps on the roof, and the taxi glides gracefully away. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for people taking their farm animals out for a stroll on a Saturday afternoon, but isn’t this taking ‘free range’ a bit far? And might the inside of the taxi be a bit, well, piggy? You know, off to a wedding, and end up with hog-shit on your best pinstripes? Imagine the other guests, at the reception. Had a shower in the last month, have you, Jonno?

  Lola laps up the entire contents, Mohawk tucks said bottle and bowl under his arm, and the pair of them, in best Barbara Woodhouse fashion, step daintily across the pavement, and into the shop. So this was a publicity stunt. Must be. The two girl assistants are making a huge fuss of the creature, stroking her back, tickling behind the ear, meanwhile two thoughts are racing through my tortured brain. Firstly, thank God. There is no way Chrissie is buying a handbag now, infused with essence of sow. Secondly, however, I step back apprehensively, in case this Bimba thing turns out not to be a goat, but a creature of fiercer temperament. A carnivore, not a ruminant. Don’t laugh, all right? It’s OK for you, sat in your comfy armchair, but I’m out here, in the wilds, and right now a pair of jaws might be about to come snapping round the corner.

  Mohawk slips out of the shop, minus his porcine companion, pulls a battered silver cigarette case out of his pocket, flicks it open and gestures me to take one. A sheltered upbringing I have had, clearly. Never before have I been offered a fag by a bloke with a pig. You just never know what to do in these situations, do you? And nothing I have learned at the library conversation group is going to be much use, is it? Should I start singing a few Sex Pistols lines? ‘Cause I, wanna be, anarchy? We’re so pretty, oh so pretty, vacant?’ Probably not a great idea. Maybe he’s not actually a punk rocker at all. Perhaps his hairstyle is a statement of post-modernist irony, or is he just, I dunno, a bit of a nut-job? Up close, the hair, which should strictly be a thick mane, is actually thinning badly, with gaps, like a secondhand garden rake. Still, who am I to criticise, devoid of any thatch on top whatsoever. ‘So is Lola a companion animal?’ I enquire, using the Spanish phrase for ‘a pet.’ I love that expression, you often see notices in parks or gardens. ‘No companion animals.’ Wouldn’t work in English though, would it? Can you imagine being a teacher’s companion animal, for instance?

  He lights his ciggy and inhales deeply. ‘Yes, she is a companion animal, and a friend.’ Definitely a nut-job. I am dying to ask him where the creature sleeps, but don’t know the word for ‘sty’, and am scared stiff he might reply ‘in my bed’, which would be a step too far for me, having just polished off a dish of meat-balls. Best leave it there. The senior of the two shop assistants, no doubt concerned about her career, having just remembered the CCTV, leads Lola back out into the street, handing the lead to Mohawk, who bends and caresses her snout affectionately. The pig I mean, not the shop-girl, although personally, given the choice…..

  Chrissie meanwhile crouches down, extends the back of her hand like you would to a dog, allowing porky to sniff, and then starts tickling her head. And I swear the pig grins, parting her lips pleasurably. My wife smiles, ‘here, you have a go, look, she loves it! Hello Lola!’ Hello? Shouldn’t that be Hola? Is the creature bi-lingual, as well as domesticated? Besides, it’s all very well for Chrissie, she is vegetarian, whereas I, a lifelong consumer of pork-pies and sausages, am putting my fingers nowhere near a pig. They know, don’t they, our four-legged cousins? A sixth sense or something? And surely Lola could detect the fragrance of meat-ball about my person? I actually watched all those episodes of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, back in the day, wizened old Yorkshire farmers getting trampled half to death by rampant, yellow-toothed swine. Anyway, Chrissie is good with animals. Probably explains why we have been married for almost forty years. She can do the stroking, I am keeping well away.

  I have to say however that my wife is doing a great job, Lola is arching her back in apparent ecstasy, when suddenly, without warning, a foaming, frothing jet of urine comes sloshing across the pavement, a veritable puddle of pig piddle, flooding her shoes and causing splash-back on her jeans. I am rocking with laughter and have to turn away with my knuckles stuffed into my mouth, as my splattered spouse jumps back, almost knocking Mohawk clean off his feet. The assistants have witnessed the flood, and one comes dashing out of the shop with the obligatory bucket of soapy water, which all Spanish businesses seem to have to hand, although not specifically for hosing down swine-slash, while the leather-clad punk gathers the lead and with an embarrassed ‘sorry!’, he guides his disgraced companion animal off down the street. Chrissie then narrowly avoids another anointing as a cascade of soapsuds splashes across the pavement, and both assistants emerge with brushes to sweep the stinking tide into the gutter. The show is over.

  I am still giggling as I start to head off in the direction of the historic part of town. ‘Oh, that was so funny, you should have seen your face! Johnny Rotten looked a bit shocked, too, didn’t he? Don’t worry about your shoes, they will dry soon in the sunshine, but I’d prefer it if you took them off, in the car, for the journey home! And best keep the passenger window open, give your jeans chance to dry out! Anyway, where do you fancy going now? The riding school? You’ll feel at home there, what with the pong of the horses!’

  My wife narrows her eyes, and fixes me with a venomous glare. ‘So you thought it was funny, did you? Found it amusing? Appealed to your schoolboy sense of humour to see your poor wife drenched in pig-piss? Want to take me to the stables, do you? Well let me tell you this. YOU can go to the stables if you like, I really don’t care where YOU are going. But I know where I am going.’

  She is going to burst out laughing any second now. Tears will be streaming down her face, she will grab my arm and we will head off, laughing together, towards our next destination. ‘So where are you going, my dearest?’ I grin.

  I was wrong, again. She has not burst out laughing. ‘Bimba y Lola of course! I have to buy some new shoes, and some new jeans, and I see they have some of both which are reassuringly expensive. And don’t forget I have YOUR wallet in my bag, containing YOUR cre
dit card. And I know YOUR pin-number. So off you go, down the stinky stables. I am going in here, and I am going to have fun. AT YOUR EXPENSE!’

  CHAPTER 10. THE OLIVE-PICKER’S HOLE

  ‘Thees day we show you hole of olive-picker!’ Doesn’t sound very nice, does it, olive-picker’s hole, but Rafi at the library group sounds quite excited at the prospect, so I am guessing she is not referring to, well, you know, that sort of hole? No idea, really. Gun-shot wounds, possibly? Wouldn’t surprise me, actually, as the town is chock-a-bloc with olive-pickers of all shapes and sizes, cannot move for them, on the roads, in battered Land-Rovers and wheezing, smoking tractors crammed with shadowy figures, trailers groaning under the weight of the crop, queuing at dusk, blocking the streets outside the olive co-operative factory, or in the supermarkets, where they appear to subsist solely on crusty-bread and this hideous-looking sausagey-baloney thing, as thick as your arm, and consisting, I imagine, of beaks and trotters, with a sprinkling of mare. Not an easy life, that’s for sure, being an olive-picker. And where do they all come from? One day the town was entirely normal, the next it was as if an invasion had taken place overnight, hundreds of men, and a few women too, shabbily dressed, some dragging battered suitcases, others making do with black plastic sacks, all their worldly goods, I imagine, congregating around the bus station, where a number appear to be bedding-down for the night. The more fortunate ones share houses, apparently, and legends abound regarding fortunes to be made letting rooms, basements, outbuildings even, for the season, which runs from early December to February, or until every last olive has been plucked. And there are plenty awaiting plucking, I can tell you. And where they go after that remains a mystery, Seville or Valencia, some say, picking oranges, where their peripatetic lifestyle begins all over again.

  Surprising how many families in these parts have a few olive trees, too. Many of our students are gainfully employed at weekends, helping with the harvest, and we are regaled during the lessons of how they are exhausted by this back-breaking work, the poor souls. The popular image of an olive-picker, as characterised on paintings, engravings and small silver figures on sale in jewellery shops, is of a wizened countryman whacking the tree with a long wooden pole, and they still use that method today, although in this more mechanised age, accompanied by a petrol-driven shaker which presumably does exactly what it says on the tin. The gentle whirring of the motor, followed by the sound of thwacking, typifies the olive harvest, for me. The sound of winter in Andalucia.

  Last night, heading out for our evening paseo, we were confronted by a dust-covered figure, a man of ninety seemingly, in battered, ripped overalls, struggling painfully up the cobbled street. In his hair, all over his face and neck, his lips and teeth, the only part of his body not covered by thick layer of grime were his eyeballs. The poor fellow looked as if he’d been buried in the desert for about a hundred years, then trampled by elephants. ‘Hello, neighbour’, he croaked.

  Blimey, it’s Fernando! Completely unrecognisable. ‘Been picking olives, Fernando?’ I smiled. Stating the bleeding obvious, wasn’t I, but hell, if they can do it, so can I. Turning Spanish, I am, gradually.

  ‘Fifty euros a day, neighbour!’ he spluttered, coughing horribly. ‘You come with me, tomorrow.’

  ‘No thank you!’

  ‘Por-que? Why not? Good money! Black money, too, in your pocket! No need to tell those BASTARDOS and LAD-RONNIES in the Government!’ And he tapped the side of his nose, dislodging about a pound of soil.

  ‘Because I am too old for this work!’ I answered, truthfully, pointing at his grotesque appearance. ‘And it is much easier, lying on my sunbed!’

  He roared with laughter. ‘Yes, we know how much you English like lying on your sunbeds, neighbour!’ And off he limped. Probably made it home by about midnight, if he was lucky.

  ‘Actually, I don’t know why you don’t go with him tomorrow’ Chrissie queried. ‘Fifty euros a day? We could do with that!’

  Wondered when that was coming. ‘Did you see the state of the bloke?’ I exclaimed. ‘Death warmed up! And it’s only about the second or third day. Imagine what he will be like by February?’

  ‘Yes but fifty a day, that is three-fifty a week. One-thousand four-hundred a month. Almost three grand for two months work. That would pay for that Caribbean cruise you’ve been promising me!’

  ‘Oh, wonderful.’ I protested. ‘You’d have me olive picking seven days a week, for two months? How much are funerals, around here? About three grand, I imagine. SO FORGET IT!’

  But she had the last laugh, as always. ‘No, I’d get Fernando to bury you out in the olives, so zero for the funeral, three grand for me! Probably get two cruises for that, find myself a rich old man, get him olive-picking next year….’

  She was joking, I hope….

  The crack of dawn at this time of the year is around half-seven, I imagine, as I’ve never actually seen it, eight o-clock being a more civilised hour to start thinking about getting up, but our early mornings are enlivened by the sound of the pickers clearing their windpipes, making their way drowsily down the street, to the centre of town, where they are collected and taken to the olive groves, then in the evenings around dusk it is a favourite pastime of mine to sit on our patio, with a cold beer, watching the sunset, keeping an eye out for the flashing orange lights on the tractors, coming back into town from the fields, with the day’s haul. I feel a glowing sense of collective satisfaction, somehow, of a job well done, even though I haven’t actually been involved in anything physical, heaven forbid. Or maybe it’s the beer, who knows? But one thing is for certain; the entire livelihood of the province depends on the humble olive.

  And typically of Spain, there is even a fiesta to celebrate the occasion. A long weekend of it, to be precise. An exhibition at the library, a silver band concert, a medieval market, flamenco, a kiddies fun-fair, and general lazing about under parasols. All this for something you cannot actually eat, the fruit here being used solely for the oil. The kids are off school, too, so I am guessing there is yet another public holiday in this country of endless public holidays. One every month since the summer, plus the inevitable ‘Days of Bridges’, which the Gobby-Enry in Madrid were meant to be outlawing, but presumably haven’t got around to yet, as no doubt they are all sat around under parasols instead of actually governing, means that the pace of life here remains sedate at best. The locals can scarcely believe it when I tell them there are zero Bank Holidays in Britain between late August and Christmas Day. ‘No wonder you moved to Espain, neighbour!’ Indeed.

  So, this hole of olive-picker. Rafi is quite religious, so no way is she being rude, but ideally we would like to know what we are being shown, before we are shown it, in case of, well, not sure really, just in case I suppose. ‘Yees, thees day we go to fack. See hole of he.’

  Getting worse, isn’t it? Luckily Juan comes to the rescue. ‘Fabrica. How you say fabrica in Eengliss plees?’

  Fabric? Chrissie is wearing a canvas nautical-style top, even though we are sixty miles from the sea, which she smooths lovingly. ‘Fabric?’

  Heads shake around the table, and Marie is thumbing through her dictionary. ‘Factory. Ees factory. Thees day we go factory of assy-etty. How you say hole of olive-picker in Eengliss plees?’

  Well that is English, actually, isn’t it? The problem is that there are absolutely no olive-pickers in the UK, last time I checked, so it doesn’t actually translate into anything we can understand. Unless they are being rude. Anyway, all will no doubt be revealed at the oil factory, which I assume is olive oil and not Castrol GTX, although you never know in this country. I have been wrong before…

  Into the room comes Anna, chief librarian and town historian, smiling, bidding a warm welcome to the British guests, and inviting us to accompany the group to the fabrica de assy-etty, to see the oyyo assy-tun-ero, a tantalising prospect if ever I heard one. There then follows the usual melee, coats, scarves and gloves are donned by the Spaniards, muffled up as if we
are visiting the north pole, whereas Chrissie and I have light jackets, undone, just to show willing, and the group files excitedly into the street. After about fifty yards we reach a large stone archway, and it appears we have arrived at our destination. We have seen this place before of course, but in the complete absence of signs or any visible activity, had no idea what it was. A factory of assy-etty was the last thing we imagined. Through the arch and into a cobbled courtyard, we are greeted by an old man with a walking stick, the boss of the fabrica presumably, who introduces himself as Alonzo, ‘but sorry I speak no English!’ Now how did he know we were English? Must be our complete lack of polar accoutrements, no doubt, unless Historian-Anna phoned through to warn him that foreigners were coming.

  Glancing around, my attention is drawn to three trestle tables set up under a covered area, on which a dozen or so round crusty loaves, about a foot in diameter, have been placed. So is this actually an olive oil factory, or a baker’s? Suddenly, from a doorway comes a woman bearing a tray of what looks like small pieces of white fish, cod maybe, judging by the flakes, followed by another carrying three glass pitchers of Castrol GTX. No, hang on a minute, not Castrol, what was that other engine oil they had back in the seventies, which was dark green in colour? Duckhams! That was it. Never used it myself, always put Castrol in my Ford Anglia, but I knew people who swore by the green stuff. So what is happening here? Loaves and fishes? A re-enactment of the feeding of the five thousand? And what does the Duckhams have to do with it? No sign of an olive-picker either, with or without a hole. The Spanish are becoming highly animated, they obviously know what is happening next, whereas we, on this voyage of discovery, have not the foggiest.