Censorship, the Opus Dei and a Brand New SEAT

 Here's a story from Ángel Medina. We used to run a newspaper together called El Indálico.
 ...

It was the year 1974. Franco was still alive, and the regime was tightening in the face of the imminent death of the ghastly old Caudillo. It was rumoured that the borders were heavily guarded against any possible infiltrations of 'revolutionary material'.

Yes, we knew all too well what was meant by that.

Even so, a feeling that everything was soon going to change was in the air. People were already preparing for a major adjustment and the desire for freedom was manifested in all social orders: in the press and on the radio, on the state-controlled television... and also at the cinema.

Censorship continued to prohibit numerous films that were shown around the world and those of us Spaniards who could travelled to France to see them. Several French towns near the Spanish border (Perpignan, Céret, Amélie les Bains…) specialised in organising some weekend film marathons in which, over three days, you could watch films that were not permitted in Spain.

Stuff like The Kama Sutra, The Last Tango in Paris, La Grande Bouffe, Paths of Glory, Emmanuelle…

I had just bought a Seat 133 and decided to give it a good run by going to one of these film events, and so I travelled north with a friend to the neighbouring country with the intention of stuffing ourselves with cinema and at the same time bringing back some anti-Franco press and literature.

We saw a dozen films, bought Che Guevara t-shirts, some communist and libertarian newspapers and also several copies of the book that was on everyone's lips and that apparently brought to light the machinations and internal struggles for power within the Franco regime: “The Holy Mafia”, the history and situation in those days of the fiercely dreadful Opus Dei.

I bought five copies, although I had heard that carrying more than one could mean arrest and even imprisonment.

The night of our return to Spain, we cunningly planned to cross the border in the early hours of the morning, assuming that the civil guards at customs would be half asleep and would not be very interested in searching our luggage. I had the books in question lying on the back seat, casually covered by a trench coat.

A member of the Guardia Civil approached, and after looking carefully through the window, he spoke to me in a placid voice: ‘Would you be so kind as to get out of the car?’

I felt my intestines churning (what is commonly known in Spanish as shitting myself with fear) and putting my hands together as if I were going to be handcuffed, I slowly got out of the vehicle. The cop climbed into the car, sat down, took the wheel and pressed the accelerator and brake, while I was silent, standing at the door of my brand-new Seat, and he said to me:
‘I’m planning to buy a car, and I wanted to see if I fit well and was comfortable in this new model. And yes, I like it. Thanks for letting me try it. You can continue. Have a good trip!’ 

I just made it around the next corner…

The Train-ride

We were talking over a bottle of wine about some of the old times and I remembered this story about one of the many differences that exist between Spain and the UK; and while we should celebrate and encourage those differences - after all, Spain is a wonderful place to live and Britain isn't - this particular item may not be the finest example in Spain's quiver of attractions and curiosities. 

I refer to the humble suppository.

Chris had long hair and a thin moustache. He favoured pink shirts and kept his things in an off-the-shoulder handbag. His girlfriend was a pretty looking Danish girl, and we find her seated beside him on a train chugging slowly north towards Madrid.

They had arrived in Mojácar that summer of 1968 in a purple mini-moke, a type of low-slung jeep – much to the understandable horror of the small group of foreigners seated outside the village’s only bar and enjoying their early-morning brandies. Chris, it emerged, was a writer doing research on Carlos, the murderous ex-bodyguard of Rafael Trujillo, the assassinated dictator from the Dominican Republic, whose disgraced minder was now running a beach-bar in our quiet resort. According to my dad, Carlos made a good Cuba Libre and anyway, one should always try to forgive and forget.

Chris’ research, once he got around to it, involved a few talks over a glass of rum with Carlos Evertsz about his ghastly experiences as a torturer, inquisitor and bodyguard and Carlos, a short black fellow with a nasty look to him, must have taken offence at one of Chris’ questions on a particular occasion.

Or perhaps he just had a hangover that day.

The jeep was found, smashed to pieces.

Chris and his girlfriend, Gitte, decided to take off to Madrid for a week for some research and a release from the volatile Carlos. On the way to the train, Chris visited a farmacia to get something for a cold he’d picked up.

We are in the train again. It’s just left Linares where it had stopped for lunch. In those days, the conductor would go through the carriages asking what everyone wanted to eat and would then phone through to the station, where twenty-seven portions of meat and fifteen of fish would be waiting in the restaurant: along with chips, salad and wine, followed by a small plate of membrillo (a lump of quince jelly) for ‘afters’.

Not bad for sixty pesetas.

Back on the train, Chris sniffled again and remembered his package from the chemist. He opened it up and extracted a metal-foil-wrapped bomb-shaped item. The carriage, drowsy from its lunch, watched with mild interest.

Chris had never seen a suppository before and, as he peeled the foil off the plug (principal ingredient: cocoa butter), he decided he couldn’t eat it so, after a moment’s thought, decided to ram it up his nose.

The carriage stirred in anticipation. ‘No’ said some old girl in black.

No? thought Chris. Perhaps, since it’s a streamer, I should open another. He placed the second suppository, with its agreeable smell of cocoa butter, into his other nostril and sat back with a satisfied groan. The two suppositories dangled slightly from his nose, and he found that he had to hold them in place. His girlfriend tittered suddenly and the carriage, released, burst into laughter.

The man sat facing Chris lifted himself partway from his seat and made an explicit motion towards his backside. ‘Aquí’, here.

Chris, his face the colour of his favourite shirt, excused himself and went to find the lavatory. He told us afterwards that he could see the tracks flashing by when he looked down the pan, and that, after an embarrassing but successful operation hovering over the seatless commode, he unfortunately coughed, firing the luckless suppository down the hole and into the heart of the Andalusian countryside.

He eventually completed the book about Carlos, carefully waiting until that disagreeable fellow had been deported from Spain.

I think I must still have a copy somewhere. 

Beggars Can't be Boozers

Times are hard. We have a beggar installed outside each of our supermarkets these days. Each one of them appears to have his patch and of course, he'll have a dog. Except for the old Romanian woman at the Co-op who looks like she just ate hers. 

I've seen well-meaning people come out of the shop with a piece of meat saved for the hound (and a scowl for its master). It's not easy being a beggar, sitting on your arse for hours each day and wearing a forlorn expression. Not easy, I say, especially with the new hard-to-climb-into dustbins we now have serving our community. 

So, to be a beggar, un pordiosero, the first thing you will need is a friendly looking dog; and the second thing is of course a good stomach. 

And remember, many of us who might walk past with our nose in the air are just a paycheck or a pension-payment away...

Money doesn’t take you far,
A shop, a store, a mart, a bar,

So looking for the cheapest link
I chose a shop to buy a drink

My pocket full I entered in.
To buy a jug of Spanish gin

I picked a brand I didn’t know
It cost the lot, I turned to go

My bottle in a plastic sack
I toddled out, my mind turned black.

I left that market in a fog
And saw a beggar with his dog

The man was holding out a cup
I tipped my jug and filled it up

Can I share it, asked the mooch.
Of course you can’t – it’s for the pooch. 

 

Spanish Shilling October 2010

The Stamp Collector

 In the bad old days, the village postman wasn’t much good with foreign names (although he liked to collect stamps, sometimes removing them with a certain amount of bureaucratic relish from the corner of the envelope). It was no big deal: in those times, the twenty pound notes tenderly send by my dad’s sister would be folded inside within a sheet of carbon paper to fool the early X-Ray machines in Madrid.

I’d be sent to Old Martín with instruction to collect all the foreigners’ letters – at least those of the foreigners who were sat in the village square, drinking and gossiping.

It’s not as bad as it sounds.

The correos opened in those day at the reasonable hour of 3.00pm.

Anyone who wasn’t in the square drinking, naturally risked losing his twenty quid.

(To explain: In the late sixties, the British only allowed one to take out fifty, later sixty, pounds a year on holiday. We would all head to Gibraltar for a top-up until General Franco closed the border.)

It’s a far cry from today. Now we don’t know each other – there’re too many of us – and the post office wouldn’t give out the mail to some spotty foreign kid anyway. Now, it’s either delivered by a person dressed in a yellow uniform driving an equally buff-coloured three-wheel motorcycle, or its placed in a tin post-box and you come along during opening hours to see what – if anything – is new.

As for the folded twenty pound notes, now the British Government lets you take abroad as much as you like: to spend freely on rounds of brandy, weekends in a Parador or buying a second hand car with no MOT and the steering wheel on the wrong end of the dashboard.

Before they took to delivering the mail, I too had a post box: un apartado. Nº 35 it was. Then they started charging a heavy sum for its rental, insisted that each person who used the PO Box would have to pay separately for the same number, and they introduced (free) house deliveries anyway.

It was an easy call, although any letters which later arrived at my Nº 35 were solemnly returned to sender, unread.

I’m sure that as a result of the Person Unknown stamp on the repatriated item, the editors of my old school magazine were convinced that I had precipitously joined the list of ‘the dearly departed’.

Which, on the bright side, saved me continuing with my modest annual subscription.

The world moved on, and someone invented emails, which took the wind out of the sails of the Spanish postal system. Then along came DHL and their parcel-totting competitors, plus those fellows who whizz through the city traffic on their bicycles with an urgent message stuffed down their Velcro pouch.

The post office was on the ropes.

So it invented in own high-speed parcel delivery system, operated as a bank for a while, started to sell books by right-wing authors (have a look next time), sent and received money abroad, sold stickers, lottery coupons and magazines and generally moved, as they say, forward.

The postage stamps were another change. Instead of a stamp which one could lick and affix, the new ones have peel-off backs. Or, and more usually, they print out an inelegant sticky strip with numbers and bar-codes, and press it onto your envelope – as often as not hiding part of the first line of the address.

So today, I went to post a letter to foreign parts and said that I wanted a stamp rather than an adhesive label, if it was all the same to them.

There was a fuss, but eventually the clerk played ball and found two stamps. The first had a peel-off back, the second did not. It has to be glued on, she said, as – not finding the glue-stick – she sellotaped it onto the envelope.

But let me leave on a positive note.

I always used to joke that when I grew up, they would put me on a postage stamp. Now, it appears, you can take along a photo to the correos and they will run you up a set of 24 street-legal stamps, with a sticky back, and bearing your smiling image.

I think I could have some fun with that.    

Tourism for Spain 2025

 The FITUR – Spain’s gigantic tourism fair – is now over. Deals have been struck, hotels booked, new attractions publicised and above all, 2025 is met with optimism and faith.

The goal is to bring 100 million foreign tourists to Spain this year (it was 94m in 2024) – and to increase the money taken last year (a tidy 126,000 million euros), and just maybe increase the percentage of Spain’s GDP to be marked down to tourism.

Tourism is an excellent industry, as they come, they pay, and (best of all) they go. During their brief visit, they spend every day on drink, on food, on hotels and on souvenirs. Apart from a tee-shirt or a decorated pot, they won’t export anything from Spain in exchange for their money much beyond a hangover, a sunburn and maybe a secret telephone number or email address from someone they met at the hotel disco.

And all that lovely money. Most of it is spent in places where neither Spaniards nor foreign residents tend to go: whether the tour-hotels; those AirBnb homes; the spoiled and overcrowded attractions (think the Alhambra, the Grand Mosque, the Sagrada Familia or other ‘untenable popularity’ places as listed recently by Fodor) or indeed in the tacky souvenir shops. Those businesses relying on tourism – rather than residents – will have their own solutions to bring to the table: more tourism please, and let’s stop with that ‘Tourist Go Home’ stuff.

FITUR was good for tourism, but it was also good for Madrid. 225,000 people came to the show, and the city took in, says a tourist-page, an extra 445 million euros in those five days.

Spain, says CNN, and looking at the American market, is ‘the red-hot tourist destination’.

In his New Year’s speech, the mayor of Málaga Francisco De la Torre warned about La turismofobia and calls for moderation because, he said, "the success of Málaga" depends on tourism’. We need to take note of this, because not only does tourism help Spain’s GDP, it is also less tiresome for we residents than living in a town dedicated to factories or heavy industry.

Extinction Internet

 What a marvellous thing the Internet is. Now we can throw out the set of encyclopaedias, talk to all our friends for free, save a fortune on subscriptions to newspapers and magazines, download (pirated) films, check our bank account and order a smashing looking shirt advertised on Facebook for just nine ninety five.

Or two for fifteen, if we are quick.

And then, when you unwrap the package – if it ever gets to you – you find that the shirt is made of polyester. See, the Internet is service, information, and increasingly, opportunity.

Opportunity for scammers, hackers, fraudsters and crooks. Many of whom don’t even exist: that’s right, the woman with the large chest who wants to be your friend either on Facebook (‘I love your posts, you seem such an interesting person’) or in your Messenger (here’s one I just got from Busty Emma: ‘Hi Dear!’). They are both bots, like the empty phone calls or the get-rich-quick adverts.

I’m reading on Facebook this morning, in a paid-for advert, the following (in Spanish): ‘Donation of 544,000 euros. Please contact me to benefit’. I’m also getting tarot-reading and offers by Pedro Sánchez, Amancio Ortega and other Spanish household names to invest in a get-rich-quick scheme. Ya think?

Even in my private paid-for email account, I get scam adverts like, f’rinstance, ‘Get your free Oraal B Series 9 from Uniited Heallthcare’ – what’s with the misspellings, is it to fool the spam-guard?

Then, beware of anything that starts with ‘Congratulations…’ Indeed, I was offered a free Trump tee-shirt only yesterday, just pay for the postage and send us your details.

Besides emptying your bank account, or taking your ID or your online-presence, or pushing extremist views down your throat (with a nod to the anything-goes policies of Elon Musk and The Zuck), the Internet can provide misleading information (The old joke of – ‘All climate scientists agree on global warming, but on the other hand and to be fair, Sandra on Facebook says that it’s all bollocks’).

The Guardian notes, ‘…it is possible to conclude that Zuckerberg has always cared more about his company’s proximity to power than to its proximity to truth’. Indeed, his reversal of the fact-checkers has prompted the joke site El Mundo Today to announce that it, too, has removed its ‘protocols of verification’.

Revealingly, the word “enshittification” has just been crowned as Macquarie Dictionary’s word of the year. The dictionary defined the word as follows. ‘The gradual deterioration of a service or product brought about by a reduction in the quality of service provided, especially of an online platform, and as a consequence of profit-seeking’.

Luckily, there are several fact-checkers out there, Snopes, Maldita, Wikipedia (currently under threat from Musk), and of course Russia’s bogus Global Fact-Checking Network…

By the way, Invermectin, which reputedly cures both cancer and Covid if you believe the Internet, is in reality a horse laxative.

Besides misinformation, or rather disinformation (used a lot in the recent American elections, and indeed, with anything to do with Trump); there’s the danger of cyber-warfare, hijacking, bluesnarfing (you should switch your Bluetooth connector off to avoid piracy); malware – (viruses, spyware, worms and so on); denial-of-service attacks which can break down a network; phishing and password attacks.

And note that, these days, only amateur hackers bother to break into your account – the professionals are busy hacking the hospital, or the bank, or the electricity company.

Twitter has meanwhile become notoriously toxic, and some people are moving to an imitator called Blue Sky. The main advantage of this platform is that it doesn’t carry far-right posts along the lines of Elon Musk and his support for the AfD, the German fascist party (‘Jawohl, Hitler was a communist’), or his suggested invasion of the UK.

These days, it must be acutely embarrassing for anyone who owns and drives a Tesla.

We have rather taken to no longer following the news – neither buying newspapers any more (El País now prints around 52,000 copies daily – as against 470,000 just twenty years ago), or even watching the Telediario (75% of Spaniards now have a streaming service – Netflix, Disney and so on). Instead, we get our news from YouTube, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, where it has little or no editorial control. Don’t believe me? Microsoft, Google, Meta, Amazon, OpenAI and Uber have all given Trump a million dollars for his inauguration fund (sic!) and Elon Musk pumped 277 million dollars into the Donald Trump candidacy. The incoming president’s goals will become clear enough in the weeks to come.

Meanwhile, I wouldn’t be too sure of investing in Bitcoin: like fairies’ promises and happy endings, it ain’t necessarily so.

Our phones – if we are important enough – run the risk of being spied on by the Israeli Pegasus – or for that matter, being blown up by the Mossad.

The Dutch professor Geert Lovink in an essay called ‘Extinction Internet’ explains that there will come a time when everyone will get tired of being connected to the Internet, because the disadvantages of sharing opinions online will be so great – the negative aspects far outweighing the good – that people will simply turn away. The Spanish news-site Infobae ‘consults experts on the implications of a web increasingly dominated by bots and artificial content’. They find that ‘the Golden Age has passed and now most traffic is either bots (no relation) or synthetic AI-generated content’. One advantage to this is that it’s a cheap alternative to paying journalists. As Forbes notes, ‘Beyond news generation and consumption, AI is improving the business and operation of journalism, which is important given the high cost and low revenue usually associated with the news media industry. Journalism can be a resource-intensive business…’

As for the Spanish Government’s plan to punish the media who publish bulos (fake news), we can only await events (as the Partido Popular and its allies criticise the proposals).

In short, corporate greed and Internet fraud between them will one day outweigh the social advantages, certainly for the ordinary consumer. Could it be happening right now?

Are we seeing the Internet die? Not for Industry as a whole, but rather as we – humble users and customers – might understand it? Maybe soon we will have to return to Telefónica and writing postcards?

It might not be such a bad thing.

So, where am I going with all this? Oh Hell, let’s see what’s on Facebook.    

What Are We Going to Call Ourselves?

Ángel Medina and I used to produce and edit a monthly newspaper a decade ago called El Indalico which ran for around 108 editions. 

Ángel has now begun to record some of his essays on a blog here.

Here's one I translated.

...

Among the stories that I am going to publish on this blog there will be some related to Mojácar, the town where I have lived for more than thirty years. And they will be part of what I will call “Stories of Mojácar”. 

They are unusual and fantastic because the pueblo and its inhabitants are quite strange.

In every sense. 

Little by little, I will reveal what this place is like, which was on the verge of disappearing as a municipality after the Spanish Civil War due to the abandonment it suffered from its inhabitants thanks to hunger, a lack of resources, a fierce lack of communications with the surroundings, plus the aridity of its lands, always yearning for those drops of rain that never seemed to fall.

The town was lucky to have Jacinto Alarcón, a providential mayor who in the 60s managed to cause a National Parador hotel to be built and also, by giving away ruins or plots of land to diplomats and others, attracted personalities and investors who started the take-off of the town as an international tourist attraction. 

Many people later following his line consolidated this projection by building apartments, housing estates and hotels.

One of the many who believed in that future was Pedro García, who built and ran the Hotel Continental for many years, which is still there today.

Pedro, a restless and hard-working man, wanted to contribute in some way to that local development and thought of forming an association of hotel entrepreneurs who would join their efforts to achieve that definitive take-off of the town. And with his best spirit he met the businessmen of the area for that purpose one afternoon on the terraces of his hotel.

'The first thing is to find a name for the association. I propose ASEMMOJ (Association of Businessmen of Mojácar)', he proposed.

'No', replied one attendee, 'ASEMHOMOJ would be a better bet (Association of Hotel Entrepreneurs of Mojácar)'.

'Why only hoteliers? What about those of us who have bars?', another participant jumped in, 'it should be called ASEMHOYBARMOJ (Association of Hotel and Bar Entrepreneurs of Mojácar)'.

'You forget that we must limit the association to those of us who are forming it, who are neighbours of La Rumina and El Palmeral', said Pedro. 'I propose we go with ASEMHOYBARRUMPALMOJ (Association of Hotel and Bar Entrepreneurs of La Rumina and El Palmeral de Mojácar)'.

Then said another: 'And you haven't counted on the merchants who are here? Let's call our association ASEMHOYBARYCOMRUMPALMOJ'.

And so the initials were added until the session became a brawl and those present, shouting, did not stop arguing and demanding more and more absurd and complicated names until one of them, the since deceased Manolo Picardo, manager and owner of the Hotel Río Abajo, gave his verdict.

'That's enough! Silence!' And he continued with the greatest expectation: 'the Association will be called ATEM, which is META ('ambition') backwards and means that we will never get anywhere.

Which, give it its due, it didn't.