The Senior Citizens' Lunch Engagement

I invited myself to the Senior Citizens lunch-date last week held in one of our finest hotels. To do this, one only needs to discover that the town hall has its annual free treat for the over-65s and to know to drop by the secretary’s office in due time to pick up a ticket.

All rather fun, I’d not been before.

I’ve become a trifle deaf – it comes with age I suppose. At least I still have my hair and teeth, or at least, most of them anyway. Although it might go in some way towards explaining why nothing in the giant array of serve-yourself food was crunchy.

The queue outside was designed to be barged, so we all did – creating a tight-to-fit blockage at the door into the dining hall. Once past the ticket-inspector, I joined the noisy throng looking for somewhere to sit.

The first person I saw was Doña Beatriz, who had kindly mentioned me during her speech as la pregonera at the opening of the village fiesta back in August. I thanked her for her kind words. We foreigners often tend to get overlooked.

Then casting about, I suddenly heard my name hooted across the room, so found my way to an empty chair next to a British friend, who like me, is an old-timer here in our community.

Janie once worked as an airhostess for a zeppelin, so I was pleased to see her, and indeed hear her voice rise above the herd.

The Spanish are a noisy race, and their refectories are designed to echo appealingly to encourage the cacophony – hard walls, lots of massive windows and a tiled floor. According to my friend Colin, who writes a daily blog from Galicia, a ‘noisy bar’ is a tautology in Spain, he says, since there’s no other kind. Apparently, when we are young, our hearing can distinguish what we want over the roar from what we don’t – known perhaps as ‘the cocktail party effect’. Sadly, this useful skill diminishes as one gets older.

Thus, many of us ancients were sufferers of hearing-loss. Two hundred or so pensioners bellowing across the tables at each other. Even my friend from the airship, who had once long ago been trained to project her voice across forty metres of companionway, was obliged to give it her all as she asked me politely for the salt.

We went to fill our plates, after all, a free meal at a buffet means ‘pile them high’.  Three times to the trough and back. I bumped into the mayor on the second visit (he was the only person there who was underage) and thanked him for the lunch. One of the racier old girls filling her plate next to me asked who he was: ‘he’s a handsome looking cove’ I think was what she said.

A merry session, a hearty scoff and a glass of wine (one must be careful these days) and so I took my leave, slightly nonplussed as to what was the point of this luncheon. 

There were no speeches or prize-giving or a raffle for a brand-new coffee-machine from the local white-goods emporium or maybe a colourful painting of our village from the schoolchildren.

I went outside – ah bliss! So quiet I could hear a pin drop.

Wassat?

I’ve been noting a few mistakes – probably from a lack of schooling – in the written Spanish that sometimes appears on my feed on Facebook. This comes down to breaking – or perhaps not knowing – a few simple rules. 

For example, using ‘ll’ (the double L used to have its own section in the dictionary) for a ‘y’. One I saw this week: Está cerca a la plalla (shudder!). 

Another one showed up today: yo te apollo.  

Then there’s the common use of an ‘h’ where there never meant to be one: haber si te entiendes. (rather than: a ver). 

And our favourite, a ‘b’ for a ‘v’ or vice versa. Bamos a Varcelona as it were… 

Spaniards also suffer from el lambdacismo, the confusion some citizens have between an ‘l’ and a final ‘r’: calol for calor, amol for amor and so on.  

And don't get me started about el andalú... 

All of the above, and that’s before we foreigners take the chance to mash the language… 

La Indala, the True Goddess of Peace, Bounty and Child-bearing

 There are just a few seminal icons that we all recognise, because of their simplicity, their reputation or their attraction. 

I can think of the Mercedes symbol, which began in 1909; the swastika (it goes back over twelve thousand years - even if it has unfortunate significance today); the yin and yang sign (the version we know comes from 9th century China); the peace sign was introduced by a British artist in 1958; the red heart comes from 1250ad (and there was I thinking it was from Facebook); the Crucifix goes back to the 4th century and the Star of David dates to 14th century Prague. Who have I forgotten?

Oh yes, the Indalo. 

The Indalo came into being at a late stage. The Almería group of painters who called themselves Los Indalianos after Saint Indalecio, an early Christian bishop of Almería (The name can still be found in this province today).  

They were a group of artists led by Jesús de Perceval, Luís Cañadas and Miguel Cantón Checa going back to 1943. They introduced the figurine in an exhibition held in Madrid in 1947. You can see some of their work in the Museo de Arte Doña Pakyta in Almería City.

The story goes that the Indalo is a prehistoric daub found in the Cueva de los Letreros in Vélez Blanco, although no one can tell which of the various stick men adorning the cave is the Indalo, neither where the name comes from and nor yet that it was revered. A 1908 - 1930 Encyclopedia by El Espasa (I found this 72 volume reference at La Voz de Almería) had lots to say about Mojácar for example - but had no mention of 'Indalo'. 

My own opinion of the Vélez Blanco claim is that it's a hoax (not that it matters). 

The Indalo became the symbol of Mojácar, and it's without doubt a special sign. It was brought to the village in the fifties by the Indalianos who recognised the artistic opportunity of the narrow streets, the white or earth-coloured walls, the dramatic mountain setting and the warm sea below. Primary colours rich in texture. The old Mayor Jacinto built them a studio in the early sixties, just below La Fuente. 

The totem was transferred to the Diputación de Almería (the provincial council) in the early nineties for no very good reason. Perhaps politics played a hand. At any rate, the Indalo became the symbol of the entire province. 

Piqued by this loss, one Mojácar jeweller, a Frenchman called Bernard, designed a new drunken Indalo, which now does service as the town's identity. Perhaps it's rather more Bohemian than the old one. 

By tradition, Zeus and his pals were the male gods, warring, fighting, raping and getting drunk. They were without doubt a handful, often destroying towns, civilizations and even the odd champion or two. The female inhabitants of Mount Olympus, the goddesses like Hera (Zeus' wife), were in charge of the fields, the forests, shelter, art and nurturing the young.  

Which is why the Indalo must be a female symbol. An Indala. She protects us with her arch, an umbrella that keeps away the elements: the rain and Zeus' lighting flashes. She stands firm on the ground and, excuse the familiarity, her legs are open for procreation and childbirth. 

I think we should celebrate La Indala. The Tourist Office claims protection, good luck and other benefits to be found if you buy one from the nearest souvenir shop. But they still seem to be male. It's time La Indala took over.   

The Storm That Never Was

Being in my twilight years, I must search each night, with only limited success, for a decent sleep. So many things can go wrong: from the owl hooting outside my window, a sudden cramp or an irritating mosquito-bite; but I suppose being uncomfortably hot (or cold, depending) is the most common. A week ago, I wasn’t even wearing a sheet.

Followed by waking up to take a leak halfway through the night.

I’ve switched on the ‘no phone calls after 10pm’ button on the mobile phone so at least I won’t be roused by some nitwit…

Once I awaken, it’s the very devil trying to get back to sleep and that enjoyable dream I was probably having – which I’ve since forgotten. 

So, I decided on an early night on Wednesday (my book is a bit boring).

You know, it wasn’t five minutes after I fell asleep when an alarum went off on my phone Waddoo, Waddoo, Wadd- the fuck? 

Yes, those fine people at Civil Protection had put out an Es-Alert warning in red capital letters regarding a most terrible storm that was approaching, man the lifeboats and sleep upstairs; and please, Take Care because we love you!

I put something rude about them on Facebook and tried to go back to sleep.

My place is on a hill beyond a dry riverbed. On the other side, there’s a fast road that connects our village with the next one along. If it’s useful by day, then it’s a cracker at night, especially if you own a tricked-out motorcycle and enjoy a good thrill. I’ve become impervious over my time here to the noise of a throaty exhaust pipe, taking about twenty seconds or so to rise and fall in decibels as it goes past, but I think this time somebody must have organised a race, because I am suddenly wide-awake once again at three.

No rain yet, as I peer out over the terrace. Grumpily I try and get to sleep again. I’ve had about four hours by now, so I’m not going to pass out again for a while. After a bit, and grouchy because of my interrupted night, I switch on the bedside lamp and check my e-mails. Maybe have another go at my book.

At six on the dot, a single clap of thunder teases me.

I stagger from bed at nine this morning, go and feed the cats, and check once again for the terrible storm.

So far, as I open a can of pet food, it appears to have drizzled slightly.

I consider having an early siesta.

Last night’s alarm was apparently something to do with Valencia, 356 kilometres to the north, where it’s been raining heavily.

It reminded me (and no doubt them) that the last flooding up there, almost two years ago, was greeted by silence from the authorities, and in consequence 230 people drowned. They also failed to warn us down here with their noisy and effective siren when the hills around next-door Bédar caught fire with fifteen victims back in July. A horrible event that I could see for three nights from my bed-room window.

So now, there's an alarm to wake the dead. Better safe than sorry, eh?

I am once again on the Internet as I sip a coffee – no rain for my area, it says, until Saturday!

Remind me on Friday night to switch it off and put a cushion on top of it.

…and later: Saturday started out overcast, then it cleared up again. There’s never any rain where I’m living!