Oh deepest joy. And there was me, hoping to catch up on my sleep. A ridiculous notion, I know, in this crazy country, but we live in hope. Elena crashes down next to the window, I shepherd a reluctant Chrissie next to her, and I take the middle, from where I can see the driver, tidying away his raffle prizes. Take care of that fruit cake sunshine, it’s got my name on it. He fires up the engine, steers round about a hundred milling olive-pickers, and, half an hour late, just as what I assume might be the dawn is breaking spectacularly over the mountains to the east, we are on our way.
I close my eyes, ease back my head, and try to catch forty winks. Been a hell of a morning already, and I need to conserve my strength for the trials ahead, later this morning, of which there will undoubtedly be many. At least I know the Spanish for raffle, which can only be a good thing, right? Hopefully Chrissie can natter away quietly with Elena, get to know each other better, just don’t mention the cocka-pigging-too, darling, and you’ll be fine. And I can just drift away……
Wrong! Annoying-woman catapults to her feet, narrowly missing impaling her head on the parcel-shelf, ‘PEPE! PUT SOME MUSIC ON! HA HA HA HA!’
Oh please, for the sake of all things holy. Can’t a man get get a bit of peace, around here? Hopefully the wag will tell her to get stuffed, and the other passengers threaten to mutiny. Not a bit of it. There are shouts of agreement, someone calls for Christmas songs, and suddenly Pepe is driving one-handed as he rummages through a cubby-hole, bringing forth a CD case, which he opens with his teeth, and steering erratically around a Land Rover full of startled-looking pickers, shoves the disc into the player. And over the speakers comes the sound of Wham! Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away….. Oh. Can. This. Day. Get. Any. Worse? An image of George Michael and Andrew Ridgley, cavorting in the snow outside a ski chalet, mullets waving majestically in the frosty air, comes into my mind, and stays there. Chrissie and I have our heads in our hands, but the rest of the bus appear to have been electrocuted, with cattle prods. They are singing, clapping, waving their arms, thees yeer, to-say-me-fro-teers, I gib-it-to-someone-especial. They don’t understand the lyrics I suppose, but who cares? This is the same as us Brits, joining in with foreign language classics, like Nessun Dorma, by Pavarotti, for example, which was all about a London cabbie called Vin Cherry, apparently. I look at Chrissie, she looks at me, and we both start laughing hysterically, at the utter lunacy of the situation, then start singing. Well, the twenty-fifth rule of travel states that if you are the only Brits on a coach in Spain in the middle of the night and the passengers start singing Wham! songs, you must join in, to avoid looking miserable, even if in your minds-eye you can picture George Michael with tinsel round his neck.
Next up is a mangled version of the Bing Crosby classic I dreamy-of-a-why-cree-maa, then that other huge Christmas number one, Sweet Caroline, by Neil Diamond. Who knew that was a Yuletide classic in this neck of the woods? Problem is they’ve changed the lyrics, so instead of Sweet Caroline, we get Es Navidad. And no da, da, da afterwards. Whatever next? It might well be Christmas, but you gotta have the da da da, right? Well we do on this bus, I can tell you. Chrissie and I are singing along, English lyrics of course, I’ve been inclined, da da da, to believe they never would. Elena, who is waving her arms above her head like a star-struck teeny-bopper on Top of the Pops, turns to us. ‘You singy the wrong words! What the fox, ha ha ha ha!’ Her English is coming on in leaps and bounds, don’t you think? Clearly she has met Amador again. Or Del.
Suddenly the bus is pulling into a huge car park, next to a large, modern building. Is this the chocolate Nativity? The Spaniards are all donning hats, gloves and, it wouldn’t surprise me, snow shoes, and a mad dash for the exit ensues. Funny that, I didn’t notice a sign saying You are now crossing the Arctic Circle, or even the Circulo Arctico, as it might be called here, possibly, and meanwhile Pepe is bellowing ‘one hour please’ at the top of his voice. Elena has trussed herself up like a festive turkey, and ushers us down the steps into what must be fifteen balmy degrees at least, even at this early hour. She stumbles on the stair and I have to grab her unceremoniously to avoid a pile-up on the tarmac, ‘Wrrrrrrrrr! Jonneee, you so machisto! Ha ha ha ha!’ No not really, I just cannot stand the sight of blood, when I’m supposed to be looking at a display of confectionery. Wrong. ‘Brax-fass. We take brax-fass now, plees.’ So not the chocolate Nativity, then. Breakfast? An hour stop for breakfast? Hell, back in the day we used to consume a right gut-buster full-monty, including chips and steak, at my favourite greasy spoon, the Frying Pan on the A303, on our way to Twickenham, in about twenty minutes flat. Including a steaming-hot mug of Ty-Phoo. Still, when in Rome, and all that…
Inside the restaurant is the usual Spanish anarchy. People are milling around absentmindedly, removing ski-wear, scraping back chairs, hollering at their friends, while behind the counter a bemused cashier is doing her level best to add to the confusion. Now I know why Pepe said an hour, it will surely take that long to even place an order. Elena rugby-tackles a passing waitress. ‘Hello! My name is Elena, what is your name? Three cafe solo, and three tostada, please. Ha ha ha!’ Do we actually want heart-stopping black coffee, plus about a foot of toasted crusty bread, smothered in chopped tomato and olive-oil? Daft question, and if Chrissie cannot finish hers, it won’t go to waste, trust me on that. And in less than a minute, Anna the server returns balancing three laden plates on her tray. How does Elena do that? I would still be queuing, that’s for sure. Or not even bothering, more like, given my extreme dislike of waiting in line for half a minute, let alone half an hour. Great this, though, isn’t it? And I might even need to propose a new rule of travel. If you get accosted by bonkers-woman on a coach, just go with the flow.
Back on the bus, Pepe puts flamenco on the sound system. And there was me hoping to catch forty-winks. Sorry Mr Diamond, but Sweet Caroline doesn’t get the locals going like a spot of manic strumming. The cattle-prods have clearly been replaced by bare wires, connected to the mains. Berserk barely covers it. And Elena’s dance-moves are something to behold, even though she is sitting down. Imagine someone picking an apple from a tree, taking a bite, then throwing it behind her, all the while stamping like a wild mustang, and you are not even close. Chrissie has to shuffle along the seat to avoid losing an eye, and glancing down the aisle is like being in the middle of a mass brawl in an orchard. And this lot haven’t even been drinking. Unless they’ve been on the sol y sombra, of course. And they’ve had an hour, plenty of time to get absolutely blotto on the old solly-whatsit.
Another forty-five minutes of this lunacy passes pleasurably, before we once again pull into a car-park, outside what is undoubtedly a factory, with a huge banner draped across the entrance bearing the legend Cristiano Ronaldo Here Today. For those fortunate enough to have never heard of this person, he is an oily, preening, prancing, show-pony of a footballer, for Real Madrid, or Ray-al Madreeth, as they say in these parts, and I am not a fan, not sure if you could tell that or not. My wife, however, who should surely know better, at her age, is salivating at the prospect. ‘Ooh ooh ooh! Cristiano! Oh my God! Get your camera out.’ Not sure I want to get grease splattered all over my best Nikon, actually, as I surely would, getting it anywhere near that slimy specimen, and besides, I have just spotted, from my higher elevation, some especially good news, which causes me to burst into uncontrolled laughter. Ronaldo is indeed here, but made from chocolate. Oh yes! Elena and Chrissie have their faces pressed against the window, when suddenly my dearest spots the error of her ways. ‘Oh bugger!’
My former pupil looks suitably confused. ‘What mean this oh bugger, plees?’
Disappointed-one takes a deep breath. ‘It means, Elena, that we will not get to see the real Cristiano today, only a chocolate version!’ Then she brightens visibly. ‘Still, every cloud, and all that. Do you think he will be milk, or plain? Will I be able to sink my teeth into his pecs? Give his abs a crafty lick?’ And she closes her eyes and m
imics performing such unspeakable mummy-porn, rather like the woman in the Cadbury’s Flake advert, all those years ago.
Elena is wiping away the tears. ‘Oh Cristina, you are, you are, how you say in Eengliss?’
‘Dirty cow!’ I bellow, grinning widely, ‘go on, tell her, you are a dirty cow!’
Elena takes a second to compose herself, flapping her hands, a look of fierce concentration on her face, and the Spaniards, who seconds ago were jostling for position, scrabbling with their polar-region sub-zero daywear, turn as one, and fall silent. ‘Cristina, ha ha ha ha! You are dirrrteee cooo!’ Uproar ensues. They don’t understand a word, I imagine, although a swift staccato burst of Spanish from Elena, including the words Cristiano and Ronaldo, followed by a protruding tongue, rather like a tomcat cleaning his privates, soon puts them right.
Several of the women are nodding vigorously in agreement, but I have had enough. Time to clarify where my allegiances lie, and put an end to this smut. ‘Forza Barcelona!’ I chuckle, raising my arms, which elicits a chorus of good-natured booing, and one or two cheers. Oh my word, this has to be the best seven euros I didn’t actually spend, and we haven’t even got there yet. I can just imagine the chatter in the streets of Santa Marta this night. An English teacher turned up on our bus, he tried to steal the fruit cake and it turned out he was a Barcelona supporter, the bastardo lad-ronny.
We heave our way down the steps of the bus, cross the car park in a giant scrum, and attempt to force our way through the door of the factory. All apart from us, of course, who do it the British way, with decorum, and besides, Elena has been swept away in the throng, allowing us a brief respite. At the doorway we are met by a woman selling tickets, one euro for admittance, which causes me to pause. ‘You go on in’ I tell my wife, ‘I am not paying to see that smirking narcissist, even if he is made from Dairy Milk. I will wait here, in the sunshine.’
Which doesn’t go down too well, I have to say. ‘Get. In. There. Now.’ I am commanded, ‘you have the camera! I have already paid. And I want my photo taken with the greatest footballer on the planet.’
I do my best to look indignant. ‘Well just remember, if I get drips of baby-oil from that glistening buffoon on my lens, you are paying for it to be cleaned!’
Nursing a painful arm, we head up a flight of stairs and out onto a suspended walkway, overlooking the factory floor, into what appears to be a time-warp. Difficult to judge the size of the place from up here, half a football field maybe, but there is almost a complete lack of any mechanisation. Did the Industrial Revolution ever come to Spain? Virtually everything is being done by hand. A woman in a white coat is sorting sweets into boxes, another is placing cellophane over the top, a third is carrying each individual box to a device resembling a one-armed-bandit, where she pulls a lever to stretch and fix the packaging, and a fourth lady conveys the finished article to a large cardboard box and stows it carefully inside. Are we back in the nineteenth century? In another area, trays of what look like biscuits are being deposited inside an oven, on the other side of which a bloke is meticulously placing each individual one into display boxes, and once again the cellophane procedure begins afresh. Incredible. And despite the walkway being packed with excited, chattering locals, not one of the workers gives us a second glance. This must be horrible, surely, being gawped on from above, by all and sundry, your entire working day, like a human zoo? I know I would hate it, and feel overwhelmingly sorry for these poor people having to be a part of, what seems to me, a grotesque sideshow.
‘I can’t stand this, I am off’ I tell Chrissie, and squeeze my way past the spectators and away from the platform, to be confronted by a chocolate figure, maybe three feet tall, a miniature Ronaldo, possibly, although it could actually be a gnome bearing a Real Madrid crest. Oh how the mighty are fallen! I am giggling so much I have to hold on to the wall. Why is he only a yard tall? Did they run out of chocolate? Surely not, in a chocolate factory. Did he melt, under the lights? Was he nibbled by excited women? Or what about this? Did half a dozen Barcelona supporters creep in, under cover of the night, and decapitate him, with samurai swords? Wouldn’t that be fun?
At that moment, Elena comes bouncing into the room, dragging Chrissie, already licking her lips in anticipation, in her wake. ‘Oh my gaad! Ha ha ha ha! What is thees leetle boy?’
My wife’s face meanwhile is an absolute picture of crushing disappointment. ‘What a load of rubbish, he’s only three feet!’
Bonkers-woman squeals with delight, leering suggestively. ‘Cristina, ha ha ha ha! You are dirrrteee cooo! He no have three feet, only two, he middle foot, how you say, he pen-yes, ees like thees!’ And she starts waving her pinkie finger suggestively, just as the remainder of the passengers come barreling through the door.
From crushing disappointment to red-faced embarrassment in five seconds flat. ‘No no no, I don’t mean his middle wicket, I mean he is three feet tall. About a metre.’ And she shoots me a hunted look.
Oh I am absolutely loving this. ‘Well, I have only one thing to say to you. Well two things, actually. This is your fault, for being a dirty coo. And, FORZA BARCELONA!’ Gonna need to rub some liniment into my arm, though, aren’t I, before the flight tomorrow?
The diminutive figure of Ronaldo is greeted with outright derision by the Spanish, many of whom must have witnessed Elena’s gesture, and are crowding round, taking photos, little fingers prominently on display. The noise is incredible in this enclosed space, so heading for the exit, we find ourselves in a gift shop, to be greeted by a woman bearing a tray of goodies, which she proffers, mumbling ‘Disgusting!’
Not sure if I fancy a lump of disgusting, actually, bearing in mind the recently-amended fifth rule of travel, but what the heck. This stuff looks like it might have passed through the digestive system of a rabid dog, several years ago, and been left out to bake in the sun, but here goes. The girls also grab a piece each, and for a few blessed seconds, silence prevails. Blimey, this stuff is like eating dust, with the merest hint of chocolate, but mostly dust. I pull a face, ‘she wasn’t wrong there, was she? It is actually disgusting!’
Chrissie splutters. ‘You idiot, she wasn’t saying disgusting, she was saying digustation. A tasting.’ She swallows, grimacing. ‘Then again, you were right first time!’
My ex-pupil meanwhile is at it again. ‘Hello, my name is Elena, ha ha ha, what is your name?’
Mumbling tray-woman appears somewhat taken aback. I bet she is called Anna. Guaranteed. Wrong. ‘Hello, I am Marie, how can I help you?’
‘Ha ha ha ha, one kilo of polbo please!’
A KILO? Hell, that is over two pounds, in weight. Couldn’t she have made do with a quarter? And polbo? We know this word, on account of the clouds of dust which waft up our street, every time Isabel gets her brush out. So this excrement stuff is actually called ‘dust’? What a peculiar country this is. ‘Why are you buying a kilo of dust, Elena? We get it for free, in our street, when the neighbours start sweeping!’
She flings her arms around my neck, like a drunken sailor. ‘Oh Jonneee, you so funny! Ha ha ha! Ess Cree-mas! My family love thees sweets for Cree-mas! And now we taste manty-cado! Plees, you try manty-cado. Marie! Digustation manty-cado plees!’
Marie disappears round the back of the counter, and returns with a tray of what looks suspiciously like chocolate-chip cookies, only without the chocolate-chips. ‘Manty-cado’ she mutters, ‘take, please.’ In for a penny, and all that, and I need something to take away the taste of dust. I take a tentative bite, and the thing just crumbles away, some down my chin and the rest on the floor. More ruddy dust! With a trace of lemon, possibly, but there is just nothing holding it together. I’ve fallen asleep on the beach before now, woken up with a mouthful of sand, and it tasted better than this.
Elena is rolling her eyes in ecstasy, whereas Chrissie and I are frantically casting around for somewhere we can spit the stuff out. ‘Marie!’ cries the nutty-one, ‘one kilo of manty-cado plees! Ha ha ha.’
‘There’s a toilet in the corner!’ my wife whispers, brushing crumbs off her blouse, ‘got any Polo’s?’
‘I thinth I goth a packeth in my pocketh!’ I splutter, heading for the bathroom. But truly, what a let-down this visit has been, so far. A chocolate pixie and the sweepings of the factory floor.
Having thoroughly rinsed my teeth and throat, I return to the fray to find Chrissie perusing a different display. ‘What is this you are looking at, don’t tell me, Paignton beach, infused with wee?’
‘Actually, it is marzipan’ comes the reply. ‘You know my mother loves marzipan. I think I will get her a box.’ Did I know that? Search me.
‘Well, you’d better ask Marie for a disgusting digustation, hadn’t you? I smile. ‘Check it for dust-content. And piddl….’
‘JUST SHUT UP, RIGHT? Elena, are we allowed a taste of this?’
Our friend looks as if she has been poleaxed, for a few seconds. ‘Oh my gaad! Massy-pan! Massy-pan! I love massy-pan. Marie! Ha ha, digustation massy-pan, plees!’
Well the woman can hardly refuse, can she, having just sold two kilos of particulate matter? A plate appears, bearing half-a-dozen generous slices. ‘Ten-to-one it tastes of dust!’ I mutter, not quite under my breath. But, lo and behold, massy-pan it indeed is. The real thing. Could do with a layer of icing above, and a Christmas cake below, mind you, but beggars, and all that.
Chrissie is scrabbling for her purse. ‘One please’, she smiles.
Elena is stunned. ‘One? One? Only one? Why you buy only one? I am buying six! Ha ha ha.’
Suddenly a massive hubbub heralds the arrival of the other passengers, who descend on the freebies like a pack of wolves. Two other members of staff have been drafted in to assist with this orgy of pushing, shoving, hollering and grabbing, and we have to step back to avoid being swept away. This is a factory, for heaven’s sake, they are not going to run out. Or are they? Shelves are being stripped, carrier bags filled, fist-fulls of euros changing hands, and glancing out of the window, I spot Pepe with the sides of the bus open and people already grappling to fill their suitcases. So is this the famous em-boo-tea-toes thing Elena was warning us about? Come to think of it, I did actually spot a box of what I’d assumed might be fudge pieces, before the looting started, which could have been ten little piggies all in a row. Too late to tell now, however, as this place resembles Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Bare.
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 25