031 - Right Turn at the 728th Olive Tree
20th December 2004 - Andalucia, España
¡Hola Otra Vez Amigos y Amigas!
Perhaps it was that slightly unnerving episode of the bag-snatch down on the coast. Or maybe it was reading brother Ian's fascinating emails (see Bulletin 27) from his overland trip from Bulgaria to China which reminded Jeni of some of her own travels with her intrepid sibling in the 1970s and early 1980s. Whatever it was, something had definitely tipped her over the edge. A dim and distant memory had been triggered, and she woke up in the middle of one night speaking Albanian! Not being fluent in the lingo, Dave didn't immediately identify it as such during the nocturnal disturbance, but next morning Jeni did remember the two phrases she'd been muttering and checked them out with Ian, via email. 'Yes, pretty good', he replied 'You said 'Thank you! Farewell!' in passable Albanian'. Hmm. 'Tis true she picked up a smattering of Albanian during a couple of trips there in the 1970s, so Dave is now waiting for outpourings of Bulgarian, Greek, Italian and German, as well as French and Spanish, during the wee small hours, knowing that her past travels have been quite extensive. No further comment.
On the road again
So - back to reality! We left our unlikely coastal hideaway, and made our way West towards Malaga, then turned North through the hilly natural park of the Montes de Malaga and back into serious olive grove country. It was another picturesque journey as we drove North East towards Iznajar. The miles and miles of olive trees on the hillsides seemed to make Dave start hallucinating - he swore he was seeing multiple heads with corn-row hairstyles! Off the main road and climbing higher, we suddenly got some stunning views of Lake Iznajar, a huge reservoir with fjord-like fingers jutting out into the surrounding hills. Fab! Our route took us across a couple of bridges over the lake itself and then we needed to start following Mark and Becky's detailed directions which we'd printed from an email before we set sail.
These directions were - of necessity - of the 'Sharp right at the 728th olive tree, past the pile of wild boar dung and fork left at the hare's droppings by the field with the gate made out of old iron bed frames' type of instructions. They were interspersed with helpful hints like 'You might have to swing out into the oncoming traffic to get your big bum round the corner at this right turn', and peppered with vaguely alarming comments like 'Road becomes rough and potholed from this point' and '50 metres of unsurfaced road as you swing round the next bend'. Ah. We wound further up the hills onto smaller and narrower roads. We were on our own with the print-out of the directions - we'd lost the mobile signal when we passed the wild boar's dung some 7kms back, and Mark and Becky have no land-line for a phone until Teléfonica get one sorted out (predictions of a wait of anything between 6 months and 2 years have been made!).
However, after some time of following these (excellent and accurate, if unsettling) directions, we rattled over the last bit of track through the woods and wow! There was Mark and Becky's cortijo on a hill in powerful sunlight - bright white against a deep azure sky. Fantastic! We had met Mark and Becky back in February in another part of Andalucia when they were looking for a place to buy and we knew that they had hunted long and hard for exactly the right place. As we came through the woods and emerged onto their land we could see why they'd been so taken with this place.
Irrigating the orchard
Their car wasn't there when we arrived, but we found a note stuck on their caravan door saying that they were on a trip to the vets with one of their three lively Pointer dogs who had come home the previous week with a broken leg. 'Back soon! Park up and get settled', the note said.
So, as you do on these occasions (well we do, 'cos we're basic folk), we both decided to have emergency widdles in the woods since, unusually, we had a lot of clutter in the inside of the Lorry between the cockpit and the relief of the loo. And yes, of course, that was the very moment we heard a car engine and Mark and Becky appeared along the track! How embarrassing is that?!! 'Oh hi! Great to see you. Excuse us, thought the apple trees needed watering!'. Oh dear!
But then, clothing adjusted and warm hugs mutually administered, we did get set up on the only just completed aparcamiento (parking area) - hearing how they'd had a lorry load of gravel delivered just a couple of days previously. Some of it was dumped and levelled in the right place, creating an ideal hardstand for our Lorry, but the delivery truck couldn't get right up to part of the area that needed surfacing, so they'd had to shift dozens of cubic metres of gravel themselves with wheelbarrows and shovels. And they had to do it in the advancing evening, fairly fast, as they realised it was completely impeding egress for their car - which of course they needed to use to be somewhere at 8pm!
Ferreting in the ferreterias - again!
It was good to see Mark and Becky again and see the reality of the news they'd been telling us, via email, of their new abode. The place hadn't been lived in for seven years prior to them buying it, although some of the land had been worked by relatives of the original owner. Even when it was lived in, it was pretty basic, as many of the old cortijos (farmhouses) are out here in the sticks. Naturally there was no bathroom or toilet (thus of course no septic tank); the water supply came up from a well (though there was at least a pump of sorts for the well, so the water did come up to an outside tap); pretty primitive and limited electricity (bottled gas of course); certainly no phone line and the animal sheds were an integral part of the building. Some of you will have read those books about doing up old Spanish cortijos - this is the real thing. And gosh is it hard work?!
Mark and Becky (and their four dogs, plus two recently acquired kittens) had only been in residence for six weeks prior to our arrival (the humans sleeping now inside the house, but washing and cooking in the more civilised surrounds of their caravan). As we sat and chatted with them over the next couple of days, we heard tales of escapades they'd already had. Like the home made flame throwers they'd invented to deal with the cockroaches; the hard labour for nearly week to clear just some of the encrusted pig poo out of the pig house end of the building so the stench wasn't so bad; the two days to hack off the old turkey shit from the chicken barn (which is in fact an upstairs room); the discovery in the first (but quite violent) rainstorm of the leaks in the stable where their furniture was stored; having to sieve their stream to remove the dead chicken and turkey remains which had just been dumped in there; how they blew up the wiring first time they used any electrical appliance and discovered the mains electricity into the house was basically run through speaker wire! You get the picture?!
One of the great things was that they were getting to know the neighbouring farmers, especially the wonderful Rafael, their nearest neighbour, getting in touch with local builders and suppliers and also making some new British friends, many of whom lived in and around a village about half an hour's drive away.
So Mark and Becky were glad to see us and we expressed our determination to help out in any way we could while we were there. (Huh! Little did we realise the consequences of such magnanimous offers!) Dave's toolboxes were positively twitching! Naturally, this offer meant rapidly and significantly extending our collective knowledge of Spanish vocabulary in the ferreterias (DIY/hardware stores), fontaneros (plumbers), distribuidores de materiales de construcción, (builders' merchants), tiendas de accessorios eléctricos and anything vaguely related. Oh yes, we soon knew our tubos de disagüe from our cañería principal, our grifas from our válvulas, our angulos para tubos from our soportes and our enchufes (con y sin tapas) from our estufas … oh yes, this beats the 2 term Spanish evening class for rapidity of learning (not to mention esoteric range of vocab)!
Communication, communication, communication
So face to face communications were coming along reasonably well (with the aid of several substantial dictionaries, much mime and a lot of Dave's illustrations), but the connections to further afield were considerably more difficult and distressing (particularly to Team Fruitbat's Communication Queen).
We've already alluded to the fact that Mark and Becky's place was out of range of any mobile phone masts and there was no fixed phone line, thus no hope of internet connections a la casa. Mark and Becky had it down to a fine art, though, and knew precisely to which point on the road they needed to drive in order to pick up a signal, then they connected up their laptop for a fast (if expensive) log on with the mobile. Since we'd lost the mobile with which we used to have a similar link (in the Tragic Bag Snatch Incident on the coast), we had to content ourselves with a few text messages on the other UK pay-as-you-go phone and trying to find the occasional internet café that was actually open - not so easy in this neck of the woods. It was 9 days into our stay before Jeni managed to get an hour's 'fix' on an ancient computer terminal at the back of a DVD shop in Iznajar, so by that stage she was positively trembling from her communication withdrawal syndrome. Sad, eh?!
The post office staff in Iznajar and nearby Rute were, however, getting to know Jeni from her frequent visits to use more traditional methods of communication back to family and friends.
With Mark and Becky's assistance, and based on their own experiences, we did also invest in a Spanish pay-as-you-go mobile phone, knowing that we're going to be here for some months and thus creating cheaper (for us!) phone communication. It was a bit of a bargain in the end really, as it cost us about €45, but we got a free bonus €81 credit about 4 weeks later which we're still enjoying. Thanks, don't mind if we do!!
Mark and Becky also initiated us into the joys of the Fortune phonecard - we've been a bit slow to pick up on such methods, which many fellow travellers swear by. It's just a €5 or €10 card you buy at a Tabac or supermercado, with an access phone number and PIN which you then use to get hundreds of minutes of phone time (the amount varies, depending on whether you're calling from and to a fixed line or mobile). Marvellous. So those mega-mobile bills we subsidised on our last round of travels should be a thing of the past. We're getting there. Albeit sometimes slower than others...!
Parabolica Envy
One of the setting up camp things that is now part of Dave's routine, is of course hooking up that infamous parabolica (the satellite dish which featured in earlier Bulletins). A few twiddles with the angle of his LNB (!) and bingo! The high South facing location at Mark and Becky's gets the best signal yet and we were once again picking up BBC TV and radio clear as anything. Mark assisted in this apparently simple operation - and promptly developed a bad case of parabolica envy. He'd been quoted between €700 and €900 by a couple of firms who said they could come and set him up a system, so he was gobsmacked to learn that Dave reckoned the equally effective DIY, self-purchasing equivalent would set them back around a quarter of that.
That was it! Forget the fact that there's no running water inside the house, no toilet and a dodgy pump in the well - let's get some quality of life issues sorted first, the Lads decided! So on Day 4 of our stay, it was all off down to the coast to get a decoder, parabolica and other necessary accoutrements to give Mark and Becky access to English speaking TV and radio as they wound down in the evenings from their Hard Labours.
The small town we'd stayed in near Malaga was about the nearest bit of coast that didn't involve nightmare negotiations of unknown urban roads searching for appropriate retail outlets. We also knew that the little shop we'd frequented in the said Torre del Mar would have everything we needed at very reasonable prices, so that was our destination. (Jeni was also promised an hour or two's dandle in her favourite internet café where she could hook up the laptop - more than enough incentive for her!) We negotiated our way through the purchases pretty smoothly, having learned all the Spanish words on previous visits, with just one small slip of the tongue which caused great amusement to the staff. The young woman serving us checked out whether Mark and Becky intended attaching their parabolica to a wall or on a flat surface, in order to provide the right soportes (brackets) or stand - it took a moment to realise that the shop assistant had collapsed in giggles because Becky had inadvertently said she intended to attach the parabolica to her 'mulo' (mule). When of course what she meant to say was 'muro' (wall) - !! Could be a whole new Spanish satellite dish methodology!
Four legged friends and fiends
Both the local vet and neighbour Rafael had insisted that Mark and Becky needed cats to deal with any small vermin, and even cockroaches. Manolo, the vet, let them have two kittens from his extensive collection of cast-offs which were constantly left in his surgery in the nearby town of Rute. Of the two kittens Mark and Becky re-homed, Sushi was certainly the smallest. The other cat, Waffle, (where do they get these names?!) was about twice the size of Sushi, despite being the same age. This was a definite advantage to him when chased by the dogs as he was able to head for the trees and escape to their lofty branches, whereas little Sushi tried to crouch down and melt into the surrounding foliage. On her increasingly numerous forays from the safety of the pig house where the kittens slept and were fed, this seemed to work quite well. Until, that is, the fateful day that she got cornered by two of the dogs and just couldn't disappear enough. Being hunting dogs they pounced on her, did what hunting dogs do to small furry creatures. Poor little thing had no chance. All very disturbing.
Waffle meanwhile was thriving. He was becoming more and more vocal - several times shrieking from the heights of trees demanding rescue, following emergency climbs to escape from the Ravening Hound Hoards. He also quickly realised that meowing loudly whilst winding himself endearing round human legs frequently resulted in cuddles and caresses, and even being given sanctuary in Mark and Becky's caravan when the Ravening Hound Hoards were roaming free. So life wasn't entirely terror-filled for him, and there was also a gradual process of Waffle and Chip, the miniature Dachshund, getting to know and tolerate each other and even indulge in 'play chase' games. Eventually they found a level in their relationship where Waffle was prepared to submit to serious groomings from Chip, which left his fur standing on end - crisped cat!
There was a particular apple tree, appropriately adjacent to the Fruitbat encampment, which Waffle favoured for his escape route since it was the one nearest the house for rushing up in the event of a Ravening Hound Alert. The tree was also bent over at a 60 degree angle from half way up the trunk, thus it had proved to be an excellent tree equivalent of a Nursery Slope, for practice before he became adept at racing up 6 metre vertical trunks. As Waffle got bolder and more ready to leave the pig house Place of Safety for longer periods, he started to resent having to go back to the solitude of his billet overnight when, as he saw it, all other creatures - two legged and four - were tucked up in relative warmth, with companionship. So it was that he started prowling round The Lorry after Lights Out, meowing loudly and pitifully for a couple of nights. Mark and Becky, behind their 21 inch thick walls in the house, were blissfully unaware of these feline entreaties, but we were finding it irritating to put it mildly. We hardened our hearts (not least because we knew Waffle hadn't yet gone through his potty training) and left him out in the cold.
Night three and we were lying in bed reading when suddenly there was a great thump on the top of the Lorry. Eek! What on earth was that? Moments later we realised, as we heard soft paws padding around the roof, Waffle's distinctive meows and scratching at the roof vents. Yes, in a desperate attempt for warmth and company, the intrepid ginger kitten had climbed the leaning apple tree and launched himself from it onto the Lorry roof! We knew there was no workable way off for him, so poor Dave started cursing that he'd have to get the ladders out and hoist the errant feline down - all this in temperatures that had dropped to -3 degrees with a crisp frost forming on everything. Damn!
Then Dave realised he could open the big rooflight from inside the van and pull Waffle inside that way. This he did - and promptly ejected the ginger fluffball from the door so he didn't get any ideas about moving in for the night. Poor Waffle's moment of triumph turned to a howl of disgust as he descended in a rather undignified fashion back into the night. He sat outside the door for quite a while vocalising his displeasure, did a couple of circuits of the Lorry berating us for our cruelty, then all went quiet. Phew. We snuggled down with our books again. That gave him the message, oh yes!
You've already guessed what happened next, haven't you? Less than five minutes elapsed before the next thud on the roof. He was back for another go!
This was some feisty feline! Anyroadup, we realised that this was going to be a bit of a revolving door situation if we pulled him in through the rooflight then chucked him out the door again, so more drastic measures were required. Clearly he needed to be incarcerated, but where? The pig houses were full of kitten sized escape routes, the stables and other outhouses were locked and all potential cardboard box prisons had been crushed for recycling. Then Dave had inspiration - the little plastic cat basket in which Waffle and the late lamented Sushi had recently travelled to the vets was the ideal overnighter. Alas, however, he reckoned that it was probably in the locked downstairs cow shed, so the only possibility was hammering at the house to try to wake Mark and Becky to get a key.
All thanks to the parabolica escapade, though, they were actually still awake and glued to a late night film - so heard Dave knocking on the shutters and calling. Phew! A quick, and chilly, trip to the cow shed to retrieve the cat crate and the indignant Waffle was cosied up and banished to the pig house for the duration. So much for trying to bring up a fearsome feline who would be the terror of all small vermin ... huh! This kitten seems to have an inbuilt instinct for creature comforts.
Next day Mark kindly took a saw to the rakishly leaning apple tree, and removed those branches which formed a relatively passable bridge to the Lorry roof. And Waffle obviously agreed that the gap which had opened up was too wide even for him to attempt - at least without a parachute!
Four Legs, Three Legs and a Red Harness
As for the unfortunate Poppy Pointer, the one with the broken leg, well she was creating quite a disturbance to routines. She managed to chew off two plaster casts from her poorly leg, necessitating repeated visits to see Manolo, the lovely vet in Rute. Mind you, given that he is both handsome and charming, with a definite twinkle. Perhaps that's why Dave and Mark had their suspicions when Becky and Jeni kept volunteering for the none-too-easy task of getting Poppy back to the surgery for increasingly regular visits. The womenfolk maintained that they were only trying to free The Lads up to continue with the works back at the ranch, but Dave and Mark to this day remain unconvinced!
Eventually, poor Poppy was becoming such a handful, despite extra long, extra strong plaster casts and a plastic 'bell' collar to stop her chewing her leg and foot, that she went to stay at the vet's for a couple of weeks to complete her recovery under stricter supervision and without the distractions of the other two bouncy Pointers and wriggly little Chip.
The said wriggly little Chip, meanwhile, had voted with his paws and moved into the Lorry to become a temporary member of Team Fruitbat. Mark and Becky were feeling that he was getting somewhat overwhelmed by The Girls, Lilly, Daisy and the poorly Poppy, and he definitely did not like being back in a house after having had a long period living in their caravan. We declared ourselves quite happy to be temporary guardians to give the rest of the household a bit of respite and him sanctuary for a while, so his little cage, where he likes to sleep or stay when he's on his own, moved into the Lorry. A good arrangement all round. He might be a small dog, but he's big on personality and appropriately silly, as befits any member of Team Fruitbat.
We got Chip one of those little body harnesses as he's not very good on the lead yet and almost chokes himself with his collar when he pulls. (Serve him right of course, some of you will say ...). We quickly realised that this potentially had another useful function. There are frequently hunters in the nearby orchards and woods who tend to shoot anything furry or feathered - so if Chip's out sporting his red harness, we thought he's at least advertising 'I am not a wild creature to be shot!' (or more colloquially, 'I am not a Brian!', since Mark responded to Becky's enquiry about the name of the small, ferret-like creatures which inhabit the area 'I think that one's Brian'! And Chip at a distance has a remarkable resemblance to a Brian!). Actually, even the jaunty red harness probably wouldn't protect Chip, as at the weekends the hunters get progressively drunker and shoot anything that moves - including, by accident we hope, Rafael's cat. The first week we were there it was a bit unnerving, because it was so unfamiliar, seeing folk in camouflage gear with guns wandering around the nearby land or creeping round the woods with knives, gathering mushrooms. But we gradually got used to it, and realised its all part and parcel of rural life in these parts.
There's more to come ...
We were at Mark and Becky's for quite a while, and very eventful it was too. You might think this has been a long Bulletin already, but be warned, there's lots we haven't even touched upon … like tales of the obras (building works), the invitation to the Matanza (pig killing), music-making in a local bar, sightseeing in the area (not forgetting the Town Called Goat) and gastronomic tourism. And then of course, the arrival of the nieta querida (dear grand-daughter) Fruitbat Sorrell. But that's all for next time ...
For now, take care and we wish you all extreme fruitiness.
Hasta la proxima!
Abrazos fuertes,
Dave y Jeni
xxx
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