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

by John Austin Richards

  The Wag comes struggling towards the door, laden down with four bulging sacks of plunder. ‘Did you English buy anything?’ he grins, perspiring mightily.

  ‘Yes we did!’ Chrissie smiles, opening her bag to reveal the single box of marzipan.

  ‘IS THAT IT?’ he roars. ‘ARE YOU VERY POOR?’ Then performs a double-take. ‘OH MY GOD, Massy-pan! DOLORES? DID YOU BUY ANY MASSY-PAN?’

  He needn’t have worried. A rotund little woman, Mrs Dolores Wag I suppose, performing a passable impersonation of a beast of burden, barges her way breathlessly through the crowd, dragging a bag-for-life, nodding vigorously, seemingly incapable of speech.

  ‘Fancy a cigarette?’ her husband chortles. ‘Come on, get this lot on the bus!’ And the pair of them, wheezing and coughing like a pair of copulating elephant-seals, wend their way across the car park.

  God I need some air, before my head explodes, and nodding at the girls, I stumble, stretching and yawning, into the warm sunshine. Strange place, this Rute, I had assumed it was a village or small town, but we are in the middle of nowhere, on a country lane, completely isolated. Glancing up the hill, I notice another factory, almost identical to the one we have just visited, maybe two-hundred yards away, with a huge banner strung across the entrance which appears to proclaim Belen de Chocolate, but I am struggling with my vision at this distance, even with my glasses. Been a hard morning, and my senses are reeling, all right? A stream of cackling behind me indicates that Elena, at least, has followed me out, and I turn to see the pair of them, arm in arm, heads together, and I catch the words Ronaldo and pen-yes. Good to see them bonding, isn’t it? And it will get bonkers-woman off my back for half an hour, hopefully.

  ‘Is that the chocolate Nativity up there, in that factory, Elena, do you know?’ I enquire.

  She screws up her eyes, but appears to be having trouble concentrating. ‘Ha ha ha! Yees. We go there now. Get on bus, plees!’

  ‘Well actually’ I smile, ‘we are going to walk, stretch the legs, as we say in English.’ Plus the fact it will take about a hundred years to get this lot installed on the coach.

  She reacts with horror. ‘Walk? Walk? I cannot to walk! Ha ha ha! In these boots! Oh my gaad!’

  I have not really been paying any attention to her attire, due to my sleepy state, and glance down for the first time to find that she is clad in a pair of skin-tight jodhpurs, shiny at the front, matte at the back, and ankle boots with spike heels. Oh my gaad indeed. Is she on a coach trip, or taking part in a gymkhana in a sex shop? Bizarre. I indicate her compatriots, who are crowded around the bus, chaotically stuffing confectionery into their suitcases amid a barrage of bellowing. How can such an innocuous task require any vocals whatsoever, let alone disorganised yelling? Put it this way! No no the other way! Give me the case! Put the massy-pan on the top! Not for the first time, or the twentieth, I am amazed at the ability of the Spanish to turn a simple task, via a drama, into a crisis. Then again, we could be stuck in Gordano Services on the M5, in the drizzle, not speaking to a soul. ‘I just thought it might take some time to get everyone on the bus, so we could maybe walk, that is all.’

  She lurches into me, grabbing my arm. The painful one. ‘Ha ha ha! Jonneee! I luff my classes of Eengliss with you! You teach me, see things with you eyes. We crazy Espanee peoples! We makey much noise! We shouty always! Look these persons!’

  Chrissie grabs her other arm, and plants a kiss on her cheek. Time for a group hug. Well this is Spain, after all, not Gordano Services. And not a hint of drizzle in sight. ‘Yes, but we love you for it!’ Enough said.

  So we are not walking, then. Back on the coach, and the vocals begin again. We bought two kilos of polbo! We got polbo and manty-cado! I have massy-pan, polbo and manty-cado! Did you see that rubbish Ronaldo? After about thirty seconds, we stop, and the whole disembarkation debacle begins again. Could have walked it by now. Another one-euro ticket, more stairs, another walkway overlooking a Dickensian factory, we squeeze past and are in the front of the group again. And, breathe. Ahead are more confectionery figures, life-size this time, four dark chocolate, and one Milky Bar. Not the little kid in a cowboy outfit and round glasses, but a bloke, white chocolate, with his arm outstretched. ‘PAPA!’ cries Elena. Oh please, no. Are her family here? She once explained that her mother was just like her, only crazier, which in Elena-speak must mean off-the-scale bonkers. Can my frail constitution stand any more of these loons? Strange though, I cannot see anyone else in the room, or more to the point, hear anyone. ‘PAPA!’ she cries again. ‘Plees take photo with me, and papa! Ha ha ha ha! I take photo of you, with he!

  Hang on a minute, surely I recognise this figure? As we approach, and my eyes begin to focus, I spot a sign on the floor. Papa Francisco. Of course! Pope Francis. And who are these other people? Letizia, Felipe, Sofia and Juan Carlos. Not a clue. Chrissie senses my confusion. ‘The Spanish royal family. Come on, get your camera out! Me and Elena with the Pope, and the King!’ So why couldn’t the other place have made Ronaldo this size, instead of that jokey little midget? Ridiculous. These figures are incredible, however, such detail, from the faces, to the clothing, all in chocolate, and we are grinning like schoolkids, posing and snapping away merrily. What a contrast.

  Into the next room and here we are, what we have come to see, the chocolate Nativity scene. And I step back breathlessly, in sheer amazement. For it is not simply a Belen village, but a recreation of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Even Elena is stunned, momentarily, into silence. Set on a huge plinth, maybe thirty feet square, ten feet or more high, surrounded by perspex to keep little fingers at bay. At the highest point are the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the columns and terraces in dark chocolate, but the trees, shrubs and flowers in exquisite detail and colours.

  Stone steps, in plain and milk, lead down to a huge statue of Zeus, with ivory-coloured skin, and gold encrusted robes, seated regally on a throne, winged figure positioned on his right palm, and moving to the left, the Great Pyramids, instantly recognisable of course. Further round is the lighthouse of Alexandria, minutely carved, and on the far side of the display, the Colossus of Rhodes, crown of sunburst on his head, right arm extended, the Statue of Liberty of the pre-Christian era.

  Next up is a figure of a lion, which a small sign announces is from the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, and finally, bringing us back to where we came in, the ruined columns of the Temple of Artemis. Astounding. Elena is gripping Chrissie’s arm, as we wander around again, trying to take in as much as possible, before we are engulfed. In my lifetime I have never seen anything remotely like this, the bricks, the stones on the footpaths and in the walls, the vegetation, the people, almost beyond belief that this was hand-carved, from chocolate.

  Elena links her arm in mine, and whispers, softly ‘Jonneee, do you like to live thees times?’

  I have a lump in my throat. ‘Good question, well done! Let me ask you. Would you like to have lived in these times?’

  She giggles, pulling my wife closer. ‘Only if Cristina and me were Queens!’

  So that is two circuits of the exhibition, and so intently have we been concentrating, we have almost forgotten about the actual Nativity village, intertwined around the Seven Wonders. Narrow cobbled streets, shops and stalls selling bread, fish, meat, carpets, bales of cloth, fruit and veg, pitchers of wine, sacks of corn, bales of hay. A forge, a well, a stream with fishermen, horses, cattle, pigs, chickens, dogs and cats, and of course the villagers, stallholders, all in authentic Biblical clothing. A Roman fort, centurions, then a group of shepherds tending their flock around a camp fire, three kings on camels, and finally, a stable all forlorn, containing the Holy Family.

  Suddenly, from the other room, comes urgent shouting. ‘ELENA! YOU ENGLISH! COME HERE!’ Blimey, what could possibly have happened? Has one of the group had an accident? Is the place on fire, and we have to evacuate? Our friend trip-traps her way back, and we follow, to find a jostling mob crowding around the Pope. ‘PHOTO! PLEASE, GROUP PHOTO,
WITH PAPA! And there was me imagining a matter of life and death had just occurred. ‘You big English, stand at the back! Elena, at the side. Woman English, in the front. No this way! Here! Not like that! Get off my foot! Move over, I can’t see the Pope! For pity’s sake, it’s only a photo. Drama, crisis, and all that. But we cannot help laughing, as this is Spain, after all.

  Disentangling myself from someone else’s footwear, holding my camera aloft, I gesture to the unruly crowd that I will take a picture myself. With a decent camera, not a manky Instamatic. Lining up the shot, I suddenly crane my neck around the lens, and shout ‘Kay-so!’ Do they say ‘cheese’ in this country? No idea, but it produces the hoped-for laughter.

  I fire off about four shots, then the Wag steps forward. ‘Fay Boo?’

  No idea who she is, quite honestly. ‘Que?’

  ‘Fay Boo, Fay Boo!’

  Not a clue, mate. Elena reads my mind. ‘Fay Boo. You no weeth Fay Boo?’

  Sorry, I thought I had already made that clear. Several others join in, Fay Boo, Fay Boo. Look, I don’t know Fay-bloody-Boo, all right. ‘No comprendo!’

  Our friend cackles, and flaps her hands. ‘Ha ha ha ha! Fay Boo. Social media!’

  Social what… Facebook! ‘Are you saying Facebook?’

  ‘Yees!’ comes the chorus.

  Blooming Spanish! They will keep eating their words. ‘Look, Elena, these are two English words. Face. Sssss.’ I slap my cheeks. ‘Book. With a Kkkk.’ And I mimic opening one. ‘Face Book!’ And suddenly, just about everyone is slapping their heads, and opening imaginary publications. Face ssssss Book kkkkkkk. Priceless. This is supposed to be my day off, of course, I have finished until the New Year. But I can just imagine the chatter tonight. 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. But he did teach us how to say Fay Boo.

  I smile widely. ‘Sorry, I am not on Facebook, but Cristina is! She can post the pictures. Probably!’ Which earns me a glare, but what the heck. It’s Christmas.

  Moving on, we find ourselves in another sweet shop, with another tray-woman, this time bearing Too-Ron. ‘You take plees.’ Now, we know this one. Chocolate, with crispy bits inside, rather like the ‘Dairy Crunch’ stuff they used to sell in Britain, and might well still do, for all I know, but about five times better. Chocolate heaven, it comes in milk, plain and Milky Bar versions, about eight inches long, over half an inch thick, and costs not much more than a euro, a ridiculously low figure when you consider they were asking fifteen-bob for a reduced-size Mars Bar, in the UK last August.

  My former pupil meanwhile is in a state of delirium, ‘Too-Ron, too-Ron!’ whereas Chrissie and I have to turn away, shaking with laughter. Too too Ron Ron Ron, too too Ron Ron! ‘Hello, ha ha ha ha! My Name is Elena, what is your name plees?’ I forget what tray-woman said, actually, as I have I met him on a Monday and my heart stood still going round in my head, but whatever it was, Elena seems to be ordering five bars.

  Chrissie however is concerned for her welfare, not to mention the state of her bank balance, and teeth. ‘How much is this Too-Ron here, Elena?’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha! Cristina! Three euros! You buy?’

  Not a chance. ‘But Elena’ she whispers, just in case tray-woman speaks English, ‘it is only a euro-twenty in Mercadonna.’

  ‘No no! Ha ha! Thees chocolaty, artisan product. Ees much better than supermarket!’

  Well it isn’t, actually, as I’ve just had a square, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the factory bought the entire Mercadonna stock, removed the wrappers, and substituted their own labels. By hand, of course. And trust me, I know cheap chocolate when I taste it, having polished off a whole packet of doggie drops belonging to Peter Allen’s dachshund, when I was about seven. And to this day I cannot look a sausage-dog in the face without feeling decidedly green about the gills. ‘Elena, I think it tastes exactly the same, and this chocolate is more than twice the price!’

  She turns to tray-woman. ‘My English teacher says your chocolate is the same as Mercadonna, and double the price! Ha ha ha ha!’

  Well I didn’t expect you to tell her that, did I? The bearer of Too-Ron looks suitably offended. ‘No, all our chocolate is hand-made!’

  Yeah, but only ‘cos your boss is too mean to spring for a machine. And who cares if it was treaded by barefoot, topless maidens? All about the ingredients, right? But what the hell, never gonna see her again, are we, until next year at the very earliest? I smile warmly nevertheless. ‘Sorry, but to me it tastes the same.’

  At that moment a tumult of Spaniards comes stampeding into the shop, with cries of Too-Ron, Too-Ron!, and we have to step lively for the second time this morning to avoid becoming accident statistics. Death by chocolate, anyone? ‘English!’ cries Mr Wag, ‘bought any Too-Ron?’

  I open my mouth to reply, but before I can draw breath Elena wades in, with both feet. ‘NO HE HASN’T! Ha ha ha ha! He says it is the same as Mercadonna, and twice the price!’

  Oh. You. Great. Blabbermouth. Will the ground please open up, right now. This has to be my most embarrassing chocolate moment, since I was caught by Mrs Allen with a mouthful of doggie drops. Tray woman looks furious, with good reason. ‘Gone and done it now, haven’t you’ Chrissie whispers, under her breath.

  ‘Me?’ I cry, indignantly. ‘I seem to recall it was you who started this, actually, telling Elena the price. Don’t try to blame me.’

  The Wag reaches across, and grabs a square of Mercadonna’s finest, sorry, artisan Too-Ron, from the tray, sucks in his gut, and pops it onto his tongue, rolling his eyes, like a sommelier with a goblet of finest Cotes du Rhone. For a few seconds, silence prevails. The suspense is unbearable. Could go either way, this, although I surreptitiously check the direction of the exit, in case it turns ugly. ‘It’s the same!’ comes the verdict, and suddenly, everyone is talking at once, as the group heads chaotically towards the exit. It’s cheaper in Dia! No it isn’t, Mercadonna is better! Dia have three-for-two offers! The Englishman was correct! Dia does one with orange bits in! Get off my feet! Did you get a photo of the Pope?

  I just want to curl up somewhere, and glancing back, I spot tray-woman, all alone, open mouthed, in the middle of the shop. I feel so wretchedly sad for the poor girl, she was only a youngster, barely into her twenties, now mentally scarred, possibly, by the day an English teacher came to call. None of the Spanish appear to be wrestling with their consciences, however, as squeezing onto the bus, Pepe fires up the engine, and we head off to our next destination on this bizarre voyage of discovery. Did you buy any Too-Ron? Not at those prices! I will go to Mercadonna tomorrow! Don’t forget it is Noche Buena! They close early! No, plenty of time! Are you going to his mother’s? Yes, miserable old cow! I cannot stand her sister! You should have seen what she wore, last year! Not surprised, with that arse! Christmas. A time for peace and goodwill.

  We are now coming into a village, Rute according to the signs, and Pepe pulls over outside a rank of shops. ‘Right, museums of Azucar, Anise and Em-boo-tea-toes. Hour and a half, then we go for lunch. Back here at two PM.’ Now, I understood every word of that, and it was actually in a foreign language. No need for any discussion whatsoever, in my opinion, we have ninety minutes to visit three places, so that is, let me think, half an hour in each? Wrong. Pandemonium breaks out. What about the suitcases? Are you staying with the bus, Pepe? I want to buy three bottles of Anise! Where are you going first? I want to see Marilyn Monroe! I haven’t got my Christmas chorizo yet!

  We stumble onto the pavement, giggling at the absurdity of not having your chorizo yet. Christmas is the same day every year, so why aren’t they organised? Serve them right if it was all gone. And what does Marilyn Monroe have to do with it? This is more than my brain can cope with, quite honestly, but Elena is still in full-on mode. ‘Ha ha ha ha! We go museo of em-boo-tea-toes now! We alone! Others they go drinky anise! We visit biggest booty-farra in world! How you say booty
-farra in Eenglees, plees?’ And she grabs us by the hands, and guides us towards what appears to be a butcher’s shop.

  No idea about any of this, of course, although I suspect it might have something to do with meat. A meat museum? Is that a thing? Entering the premises, it seems I have to amend my first impressions, slightly. Not a butchers, exactly, but a delicatessen. A sausage shop, to be precise. A glass counter, twenty feet long, possibly, containing every shape and size of banger imaginable, thick, thin, long, short, every possible shade of brown, pink, white and black. One particular gruesome, knobbly specimen wouldn’t look out of place at a certain kind of Gentleman's Club, so I’ve been told, you understand, and another resembles a copper’s truncheon and would certainly administer a mighty whack to a fleeing miscreant, I can tell you. Chorizo I recognise of course, plus black and white pudding, and it gives me particular pleasure to spot what looks remarkably like Cornish hog’s pudding, but the rest of them? Not a clue.

  It appears, however, I am to remain in ignorance no longer, as a friendly, smiling woman behind the counter is slicing frantically, laying out free samples onto around twenty plates. Thank my lucky stars, I have died and gone to heaven, and were this a desert island….well you know the rest. The only decision is which ones to try. Now, let us be clear on this, I could easily polish off the lot, especially if I had a beer on the go. But that would be greedy, wouldn’t it? Not British in fact. I have to save some for the other customers, especially after they have been on the anise. So, with that in mind, as I already know the puddings, black, white and hog’s, plus the chorizo, naturally, and as the thirty-sixth rule of travel states if you are in a sausage museum and get offered something which appears to have spent its formative years in a gentleman’s club, go for it, my son, that has to be my choice, right? Plus a slice of copper’s truncheon. Tough job, and all that.