Irvine Hunt - A Spanish Diary

IRVINE HUNT


	A SPANISH DIARY

At the Sun's Edge
A Spanish Diary

NOT another book about Spain? said the publisher. And yes, I tried to say enthusiastically, because we were on the phone, and he said no. Your main theme, he said, life with the peasants, is not engaging. Not only peasants, I assured him, but cobblers, doctors, the raggle-taggle of travellers, the ordinary Spanish people, the . . .

I heard him cough. He didn't sound well. Girls, too, I suppose? Yes, I said, that is, not exactly . . .

No, he said. Especially not girls.

I shouldn't have said girls. When I thought about it, they had entered my modest travels by chance and not choice, certainly the lady covered in sequins. So, still chastened, here is a snatch from yet another unpublished trail of travellers' tales, a seven-month trek round Spain and Portugal in the 1960s, idling now on the Net rather than lying unread in a drawer.

As it is, I should say that the whole adventure, for adventure I hoped it would be, started badly. At Lourdes still on the way to the Spanish frontier I stumbled in the main street and broke a rib. A miracle in reverse, said a Lourdes doctor examining the X-ray. Days later, as I reached Spain two unpleasant looking men tried to grab my camera and nearly got it.

After that Spain was wonderful . . .

Enrique's Wild Ride . . . . Chapter 23

THE port and town of Almeria lay far behind and I walked on all afternoon, heading south along the Mediterranean coast, the road dusty and shimmering with heat so that by evening, thirsty and tired, I reached a cluster of flat-roofed shacks and stepped into a gabble of talk.
Leathery-faced men in worn shirts and jeans were arriving out of the fields and unloading baskets of tomatoes and wanting payment. Among them stood clusters of tired looking mules and donkeys tethered to posts and car bumpers.
So many mules and donkeys together . . . there were at least thirty.
"Buenas tardes!" I said to the nearest man. "Good evening!"
It would make a wonderful picture.
Unshaven tired faces turned. "Buenas tardes," they replied, eyeing my faded clothes.
Would they mind if I took a photograph?
Had I offered to give everyone a bottle of wine the response could not have been more enthusiastic. Faces lit and instantly men made an open space. "Señor, take all you want!"
"Perhaps someone," I suggested, "would be willing to mount one of the mules?"
Smiles greeted this request.
"Si, si, you must ask Enrique."
Enrique had heard. He swaggered up, a man about forty years old, tall, strongly tanned and sinewy. Unlike the others, who wore straw hats and caps or went bare headed, Enrique sported a battered cowboy-style hat to indicate perhaps that he was a cut above the peasants. He was indeed the owner's son and at once a businessman.
"Photograph? Si! Pesetas, pesetas!"
He rubbed a thumb and finger together in front of his face so that I understood.
"Pesetas!" I exclaimed in mock horror. "Do you imagine I am a millionaire?"
"Pesetas!" said Enrique.
I took a firm stand.
"No thank you, Señor. No photo! Not Americano."
Everyone there understood Not Americano.
"Enrique only jokes," one hombre explained quickly. "He talks in fun."
The hombres fell to asking about my camera, and why its nameplate was broken. A boy offered a welcome swig of wine from a bottle; a man a cigarette. And then Enrique, having had time to reflect, pushed forward again.
"Hombre, you take my photo, but you send me photo gratis, si?"
I greeted his compromise with a beam. "Of course, Señor. Thank you! A great pleasure. Gratis! "
Everyone seemed to approve of this solution. A deceptively weedy looking mule was unhitched from a ring in a wall and Enrique climbed on board. The result was ridiculous. Enrique sat tall-bodied and long legged, his boots scarcely twenty centimetres above the ground. The little beast sagged woefully beneath his weight.
"Hey, hombre! Beautiful photo, si?" he demanded.
I nodded that it was. After all he was being helpful.
"Si, muy beautiful!" I told him.
I busied myself with the camera, pretending to take pictures, though in fact too many heads and shoulders were blocking the way.
"Muy beautiful," I said, "Gracias!" I waved a hand suggesting that I had succeeded, while hoping for a better opportunity. It soon came.
"¡Olé!" cried a voice in the crowd.
Like a gunshot, a thick piece of boxwood smacked down on the hindquarters of the mule.
The attack by a grinning peasant had a spectacular effect. The apparently exhausted mule emitted an agonised bellow. Enrique, caught half-dismounted, rose into the air, then grabbed wildly at the creature's neck as it produced an alarming burst of energy and belted off into the crowd.
"Wahoo! Wahoo!" yelled the hombres. "Enrique! Enrique rides! His photo, inglés! His photo!"
Dust rose in a cloud. I did my best but more heads got in the way, and then the mule swung round and hurtled back towards us. No one waited to be mown down, we scattered and the delighted howls increased as mule and Enrique galloped through like a Wild West horseman.
A scowling rider returned to the waiting hombres.
"If I catch who hit the mule . . . " began Enrique, sliding to the ground. His threat was still incomplete as a second piece of wood descended on to the creature's flank. Enrique let out a roar and shot off again between the buildings, the rider running strongly in tow. More howls of laughter filled the evening.
Tears streamed down the cheeks of the dusty hombres, and minutes later more ironical cheers greeted the returning Enrique.
Everyone was now waiting to see his expression. Was he angry? He must be! What would he say? Heads bobbed and ducked as men tried to glimpse his face.
It was a tense moment but the situation was brilliantly defused.
Someone began to clap hands. In a moment this simple kind act turned on all sides into generous, spontaneous applause. Amid friendly backslaps Enrique grinned broadly, waving a hand (the other locked on the reins) and scoffed at the thought of ever imagining he might have fallen off his steed.
He showed still more his worth. Turning to the trembling mule, he began to soothe it. Watched by a circle of men he lifted one of its back legs, crooking it within his arm and gently stroked the animal's underside. Amazingly the creature did not move. He stroked it for several minutes or so, talking in a low soothing tone and the trembling beast calmed as we watched. After this there was more back-slapping, Enrique's grin bigger than all the rest.
"Very fine, eh, hombre?"
He bestowed on me a generous smile.
"Very!" I told him.
"I ride him cowboy!"
"¡Olé! John Wayne!"
That did please him! With a flourish he produced a bottle of wine out of a crate and offered me a swig. More bottles appeared. Everyone began to drink to everyone's health. Everyone was laughing. When I left an hour later, somewhat unsteadily, I knew I had met some of the best of all hombres.