Spanish Shilling

I ghought I'd write a few wofds wigh my fat forffingef on the litgld kehpad that can be found ln my Andflid.

Just to show how aggravating it can be. Indeed, when it comes to writing something on that tiny keyboard that comes with my mobile phone, I’m all thumbs.

I don’t extend myself much on my android (‘Andflid’) as a rule, beside insulting Maga Republicans on Facebook (and most of them have worse spelling than anything my finger can manage), because of the bother of having to go back a few times to repair my text. The laptop is a far better option if I’m writing an essay – I can see the keys!

Yes, I have spellcheck, which will fix your spelling a treat, but I also like to write in three languages, English, Spanish and Spanglish (and then sometimes in a fourth, Gibberish, when the feeling takes me).

There’s WhatsApp, I suppose, for those text messages, although my younger daughter – when she wants to have a word with me – probably has the answer. Why struggle over a text when you can simply press the record-button and let fly with sixty-seconds worth! 

And anyway, even with a few honest mistooks, one can still read the sentence I started this essay with.

After I left school in the UK, I went to an international college in Seville, and took English, Spanish, French, and shorthand/touch typing, so I can more or less manage with a proper QUERTY keyboard.

I have a granddaughter from the United States visiting at present (my late wife was American). To be precise, she was just here with me for a few days, time for her to get over the jetlag and enjoy a Chinese dinner on the beach, and then off she went to Granada to learn Spanish.

I told her – switch the keypad on your cell phone to Spanish. It has all the letters you need for English, plus easy access to accents, the ñ and so on.

Indeed, I said, try not to use English at all (except when sending a message home to your mom, who was born here in Almería and speaks perfect Spanish anyway).

The thing about learning a language is to learn the culture. You can’t amuse a Spaniard talking about baseball, British TV shows or the joys of Yorkshire pudding – go with stuff which is of more interest – whether it’s tinto de verano versus cerveza de barril (personally, I like the belch from a good caña), or should one put onion in a tortilla de patatas, or the best way to prepare a fabada asturiana; plus which is the best Spanish pop group, who will win the elections (and why) or what’s going on in Madrid.

The grammar will come when it’s ready.

Go to the movies, and stick to watching Spanish TV, not Desperate Housewives.

Today I got a lengthy message on WhatsApp from my granddaughter (unlike me, she has functioning opposable thumbs) to say that she is studying hard, takes the bus to class each morning, was at a student’s party last night, and is having fun.

No doubt she will find a nice boyfriend while she’s there (Spanish I hope) and then decide to stay in España for ever.

As so many have done before. 

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Each week, I post a blog called Business over Tapas with useful news about Spain. It has the editorial I've posted here - usually - plus a number of short items of interest together with their links to sources. There are no adverts and no fluff. 

There is an election looming, with two very different possible outcomes. Readers will have already made up their minds, and most of us can’t vote in Spain anyway, but these are the two strains: 

The conservatives want to lower taxes and lower services. They would adjust Spain’s military spending towards the 5% of GDP, as demanded by President Trump (preferably with American-made weapons). The banks, industry, the Church, the Judiciary, the Military, most of the media, the nostalgics for Franco and so on will support them.

The progressives (as they call themselves) want to tax the rich, increase social services and aid, are against war and if all went well (as per the CIS poll), they would be in the majority.

The conservatives are two parties (or two-and-a-half if you count the Catalonian secessionist Junts per Catalunya). These are the Partido Popular and Vox. The PP is led by the rather grey Alberto Núñez Feijóo (hard to pronounce, hard to remember) while Vox has the dashing Santiago Abascal, who likes to be seen on horseback or wearing military garb (although he was never in the army or indeed in any civilian job beyond briefly running a bar as a teenager). He is friendly with both Trump and Netanyahu.

                                                                                  (My picture is a cartoon from the summer hols). 

The PP has been losing support towards Vox, which is an unashamedly fascist party, and is a member of the European ‘Patriots for Europe’.

The One can’t win the elections without the Other. This would include – in a conservative government – Vox’s leading claims, which include a discriminatory Spaniards First agenda (possibly illegal under European law) called National Priority.

To add to the excitement, a small and eccentric far-right party called Se Acabó la Fiesta might conceivably gain a seat (there are a total of 350 up for grabs).

The Junts would be a useful but disagreeable ally for the conservatives – more so since Vox would like to see it and other secessionist parties banned, even though Junts has taken under its wing the far-right Aliança Catalana, a Catalonian version of Vox.

Vaguely in the centre would be two other regional parties – the PNV and Coalición Canaria.

On the other side, we have Pedro Sánchez (worth five legions just by himself), his PSOE socialist workers party, and what has turned into a large number of splinter groups from the far left which one could head under the title (with a nod to Monty Python) ‘the Judean People’s Front’. The title for alliance of the left has long been taken by Izquierda Unida, a coalition which includes (or included) the Partido Comunista de España, the Partido Socialista Unificado de Cataluña, the Partido de Acción Socialista, the Partido Carlista, the Partido Humanista and the Izquierda Republicana. Over the years, the coalition evolved from a multi-party alliance into a unified political movement organized through regional federations (such as Izquierda Unida-Verdes and Esquerda Unida). With me so far?

Then there is Podemos, which came in strong in 2015 with 69 deputies and has withered ever since (as often as not due to aggressive tactics from the right-wing media and the judiciary) down to just four in the outgoing government. Other groups on the left of the PSOE include the regional ERC (with the shooting star of Gabriel Rufián who… almost… managed to bring everyone together), the Basque EH-Bildu party, an Andalusian one called Adelante Andalucía, plus the survivors of the departed Sumar party – now called Frente Amplio, a coalition of various lefty groups: the above-mentioned Izquierda Unida, plus Más Madrid, Catalunya en Comú (Comuns), Compromís Regional (Valencian Community) and the Verdes Equo. Add to this heady mix, the far-left nationalist Galician BNG.

Trying to get them all together – as everybody on the left was hoping, has turned out to be as hard as herding cats. With some of the small lefty parties presenting candidatures and others joining into an approved lefty coalition, clearly there will be votes that fall between the cracks, and thus lower the chances for Pedro Sánchez to return as prime minister. 

Of them all, Podemos has proved the most intransigent.

The elections are for the Congreso de los Diputados (350 seats) and el Senado (266).

Furthermore, there are the – I’d call them joke parties: Pacma (the pets’ party), Democracia21 (Miriam González, the wife of Nick Clegg), and at least a dozen others…

The elections are on Sunday, November 29th. There will be two weeks of active campaigning, which means posters everywhere with ‘Vote for Me’ slathered across them, which starts on Friday November 13th. Right now, we are in ‘pre-campaigning’ times.

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Each week, I post a blog called Business over Tapas with useful news about Spain. It has the editorial I've posted here - usually - plus a number of short items of interest together with their links to sources. There are no adverts and no fluff. 

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 air hostess 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.

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Each week, I post a blog called Business over Tapas with useful news about Spain. It has the editorial I've posted here - usually - plus a number of short items of interest together with their links to sources. There are no adverts and no fluff. 

So, who will win? Gosh, that's a hard one.

A few thoughts. 

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… 

In Spain, "Una familia, una casa" has become a prominent political slogan and debate topic spearheaded by left-wing politicians, most notably Gabriel Rufián. The thrust, backed (more or less) by the Spanish Constitution, is that every family should have a home. This, many would argue, should come before profit, especially in the guise of the ‘Vulture Funds’ – who tend to buy entire blocks of apartments in their endless search for a buck.

The Vulture Funds (often but not always foreign carrion-eaters) may aim to increase rental-prices or add some slap-dash repairs and seek fresh tenants. They might plan to remove their existing tenants (known in the trade as ‘las cucarachas’), or perhaps leave the building entirely empty waiting for higher property values or maybe turn the apartments into short-term tourist lets or even a hotel. Who knows, and perish the thought, these scavengers might even enlist the help of a city councillor to expedite matters.

Circling just behind these birdies – who are just as happy investing in houses as in anything else with good opportunities – we have los grandes tenedores – landlords that own either ten or more homes or over 1,500m constructed. It can be a great business, especially if you divide the apartments into various rooms-for-rent, demand being what it is. 

Then there are the banks, whose mortgages sometimes turn out to be a little too rich. 

So Maricarmen. Article 47 of the Spanish Constitution establishes that all Spaniards have the right to enjoy decent and adequate housing, ‘though it is categorized as a guiding principle of social and economic policy rather than an absolute fundamental right’ (says Google AI properly), but housing isn’t just in the hands of the state, but rather under the control of the regional (and city) governments.

Maricarmen Abascal was a victim of this mess. She had been living in the same apartment since Franco’s times (when prices were cheap, there were firm rent-controls and not everyone dreamt of being a capitalista). Her parents moved in along with Maricarmen back in 1957 and until recently (as the only survivor) she was paying 500€ a month. A Spanish investment company bought the whole building a few years ago and suggested that she should be paying a more reasonable rent – like 2,650€ a month. Long story short, the 85-year-old was evicted last week and carted off to hospital. Serves her right, eh?

Not everyone would agree, and there have been protests – a sit-in began in Madrid’s Puerta del Sol on Saturday which soon turned itself into a tent-city.

Not that she was the only one – evictions in Spain (whether vulture-related, foreclosures, rent-in-arears or squatters) are numerous. Indeed, says Público, there’s an average of 44 evictions taking place daily in Spain. Not that you’ll see any flag-wavers or right-wing banners amongst the protestors.

The story has gone worldwide. ‘The dramatic eviction of Maricarmen has put Spain’s worsening housing crisis back in focus, amid rising rents, limited affordable homes and a political fight over tenant protections’, says an Asian source.

The Government had tried to resolve this issue back in April this year but were shorted by the contrary votes of… well, the usual suspects. It’s now trying once again. Meanwhile, Urbagestión, the investment fund that evicted Maricarmen, feeling hurt by the negative press, on Monday relented and said she could have her old place back again.

Building more homes is all very well, and very necessary, but with the law of the jungle, where the new homes are picked up by the wealthy for speculative purposes, more attention needs to be placed on building rent-controlled council-homes, an expense which has fallen by 43% since 2002.

An item in Marca notes that Canada, faced with a similar issue, found the solution by stopping foreign venture-capital from entering the residential housing market.

Spain’s minority government has now proposed (once again) rent-controls, a halt on all evictions until 2030, and banning the purchase of housing by investment firms.

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 introduced by a British artist in 1958; the red heart that 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 today 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. I think that 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.   

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 clearly for three nights from my bed-room window.

So now, they are using 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 leave the phone under the seat in the car.

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

There were a lot of posts on my feed the other day about how the AI Data Centres are going to become our nemeses. Firstly, by taking all the water and electricity. A large facility needs tens to hundreds of megawatts of electricity and up to five million gallons of water every day. The Spanish Data Centre Association (Spain DC) forecasts almost 67,000 million euros (‘€66.9billion’) invested in this country through 2030. 

Bad enough perhaps, but it gets worse as we ask: what place will humans have in the scheme of things when the machines can do everything we can do, only better? Already they can write poetry, resolve an impossible math equation, create ‘improved’ weapons, watch us and even think for us. It won’t be long before Artificial Intelligence checks the tea leaves and decided we aren’t wanted on the voyage any more. I don’t exaggerate, as we read: ‘AI could kill all humans in next decade, warn experts: but how seriously should we take them?’

I have been hoarding recently. Not old bits of cardboard, unread newspapers and empty toothpaste tubes, but stuff which might be useful for when a calamity befalls us.

Cans of sardines, jars of fruit and veg in water, tins of unperishable sustenance made in Eastern Europe, some Nescafé and sugar, a bottle of Butano, a lighter, lots of drinking water and a jug of vodka in case the first people through my front door turn out to be Cossacks.

The thing is it could be anything. Russians or Chinese perhaps (anyone seen Red Dawn?), or a meteorite, or another round of covid – even more dangerous than the last one. 

An American friend of mine bought a cave in Missouri some time ago, turned it into a fortress complete with guns and booby traps (and hopefully something to eat). He emailed me back in 2020 when the pandemic came along with a marvellous line that reads ‘All things considered, I would have preferred zombies’.

Such people as my Yankee friend are called preppers or survivalists – being ready for almost any calamity. In fact, while you are waiting for the Big One, you may want to get yourself into shape and learn how to trap, kill and dress a wild boar, then cook it over a fire (don’t let the neighbours see the smoke!).

The billionaires (who may well be at fault when things eventually go pear-shaped) are said to be building enormous underground bunkers loaded with groceries, guns, oxygen, medical supplies, bimbos and mercenaries. The plan being to, um, start again once the world ends, with the enthusiastic help of the bimbos. The return of Adam with a fistful of Eves. Rather obviously, when the hired-muscle realise that their wages aren’t going to be of any further use, they’ll certainly decide on cutting out their boss and helping themselves to both the girls and the supply of twenty-year-old Scotch.

To prepare ourselves, as above, we need tinned food, plenty of fresh water, a battery radio (so we can pick up Richard over at Spectrum FM), a torch, a few candles, plenty of lavatory paper (it’s hell when you run out) and an AK-47. I’m about there, except for the firearm, but I do keep a knotted sock full of marbles, and if things become hand to hand, there’s some nail-clippers in the drawer.

Well, let’s ask the GoogleAI what else I need: ‘a basic disaster kit’, it says. Don’t forget the medical box (Elastoplasts, Paracetamol and a tongue-depressor), a whistle in case it was an earthquake, some pocket-money (which reminds me, I ran out of cash the other day and had to raid the tin), a power-bank charger for the phone, and finally, in a waterproof bag: the trusty passport and a change of underwear.

I live on a hill across a (normally) dry-river bed. If it fills up, then I will no doubt be OK even if it hasn’t drained three days later. Maybe a bit tired of lunching on tinned rhubarb, but otherwise fine. Unfortunately, most disasters are going to be lasting a lot longer than a panicky weekend, indeed, they may become permanent.

What are the most likely? I ask Wikipedia: it says under ‘Global Catastrophic Risk’, that ‘Human-made risks carry a much higher probability of ending civilization than natural cosmic events’. And very jolly reading it is too. On the same subject, GoogleAI warns of ‘The creation of an artificial superintelligence that outpaces human control and pursues goals not aligned with human survival’. Something like Terminator 2. On this grim possibility, The Guardian says: ‘Lawmakers blast AI companies after researcher warns of human extinction by 2030’. That’s just four years from now!

The GoogleAI disaster-list continues (plus a few of my own) with ‘engineered pandemics’ (maybe I should add a bottle of American Health Secretary Robert Kennedy Jr.'s Ivermectin equine laxative to my store), followed by ‘invasion from a foreign force' - perhaps they'll be robot-soldiers, the kind that never sleep - and worse still: ‘nuclear war and nuclear winter’.

It continues spreading its gloom with ‘rapid climate change’ (and here am I living in Southern Spain where the heat this summer broke records), volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, powerful cyclones, rising sea levels, methane poisoning, el Niño and microplastics.

How about a putsch from one or another of the billionaires (I’m thinking of YOU Elon Musk)? Then there’s the – I have to say – rather unlikely threat of the Rapture, where the most faithful of the evangelicals will ‘rise in the clouds’ while the rest of us are burned by Beelzebub, and finally the surprise arrival of either a huge asteroid or an unexpected attack by a horde of bug-eyed Martians. Frankly, I’m amazed we’ve made it this far.

Living in Spain, there’s also the outside chance of a coup d’état. Unlikely perhaps, but they did it once before. In my opinion, it’s pretty much on the cards right now for the USA.

Really, and after reading my own notes, I should probably go and make myself a nice cup of tea and then have a lie down.

Just in case, and don’t tell my neighbour I’m stockpiling, I might pop round this evening to the local German discount supermarket again and pick up a few more tins of pickled beets.