The kindness of strangers
Trip Start
Aug 24, 2005
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23
31
Trip End
Aug 24, 2006
Rota, Spain
Friday, June 15, 2007
I told many of you about my high plans for an epic journey north over holy week, to take in the Guggenheim and San Sebastian, but in the end i sold out, in the pleasantest way possible. Kiwi-Alex, after courting every variety of bad luck imaginable in Madrid - found out that she has family living on the South Coast. Better late than never, for her. So we were invited to visit in the relos in Rota.
Rota would be a very small andalucian village, with mildly interesting churches and nice good fish, but for a few significant features. One is the US naval base, full of rowdy and well-paid seamen and their gorgeous wives. The other is the long stretches of very clean beaches, the pale blue atllantic waters, and the scorching sun.
It also has Grace, Kiwi-Al's relative somehow, the connections never becoming entirely clear to me. Grace and her family happen to be the most hospitable people in Spain. And they happen to live in a big white villa on the beach. And to own a pizzaria, and some bars, and a rather encycopedic knowledge of andalucian vegetarian cooking. All of which is very helpful for two self-fed vegos struggling in a land ruled by ham.
A difficult week was spent basking in the sun and in the generosity of our hosts, eating eating eating and then sleeping it off, true siesta style. I mostly managed to contain my naps in the sun to one per day. We walked the kilometre or so into the historic centre of town relatively often, but perhaps not as often as we could have, everything we could possibly need being available within the villa, and mostly between the kitchen and the back door to the beach.
Holy week in Spain is of course a massive affair. Rota is not known for its celebrations, but that fact is rather frightening given the elaborate preparation and ceremony that goes into their 'meagre' festivities. Every night for over a week, a procession, sometimes two, would pass through the town steets in a slow and penitent shuffle that would last for up to eight hours. Those that march wear robes and hoods, very KKK-style though i'm pretty certain Spain came up with the idea a few centuries before Alabama. And despite this unfortunate correspondence, there is nothing sinister about the Spanish penitents. Under the robes are discernible the forms of children, old women, towering men - the faithful in their every form. Some chose to march barefoot, and a few wore foot-manacles, the clink of the chains on cobblestone lending an eerie effect to an otherwise silent procession.
Some carried heavy wooden crosses, some carried candles that spluttered in the sea breeze. Sombre children swung censors of incense and furtively exchanged candies, which i geuss solicited secret smiles under those black red purple white hoods - a different colour, a different theme every night. Some processions were silent, others were accompanied by brass or percussion. And over everything lurched the enormous religious icons: Jesuses with human hair staggering under ornate, blinged crosses; virgins with mournful porcelain doll faces; other Jesuses in triumphant ascent, dressed in rich purple and without blood or blemish. The statues were surrounded by flowers, ornate lanterns, banks of candles, canopies, or any number of opulent decorations, and the effect was magnificant. Housed beneath, discernible only by their synchronised feet, troops of sweaty, burly, good-humoured men shouldered the enormous weights and carried their beloved images for hours through the streets, a painstaking snail's pace and testament to the dedication of those involved.
In contrast were the raucous crowds witnessing the procession. like over-groomed chipmunks, men women and children of all ages cracked sunflower seeds and spat the kernels into the street, to be crunched under(bare)foot by the processions. People shouted through the silences to their friends across the street, or weaved among the marchers to greet friends. It was an odd contrast, the vicarious but slightly distasteful crowd and the solemnity and peseverence of the marchers. and on the heels of the last of members of the processions came the vendors...
A week of pure relaxation, and more than that an insight into more or less normal spanish life. A house ruled by strong-minded women; an endless procession of fantastic food; time every day for relaxation, for family and for fun; a vibrant nightlife in the streets and daylife on the beaches; and always good-humour and generosity, even to free-loading city folk.
... And then back to Madrid, still gorgeous in Spring, but now sluggish as it recovered from Easter celebrations. But it is the holliday season, with long weekends as often as not from now until the end of May. Personally i'd rather take the money and run, but really any chance to dodge the work is relished. There is only so much interest i can feign in gerunds, auxiliary verbs and perfect tenses. Life here is very good though and very easy, and there are more adventures on the way, both in Spain and beyond. The most frightening one of all though is a probably journey home at the end of August, on the one year anniversary of my leaving with Andy for Chile. How long ago that seems!
