Blood lust and wish fulfilment

Like many women of my age and background I dreamed about horses for a long time; they say it is a sex thing but I don’t think so; horses are better than that and I had a recurring dream about escaping on one. Fate, however, didn’t deal me the right hand; living in Purley there was no room for a horse, even the kind that appears in the bedroom after dark. I came of age and gave up riding around 21, except for the odd gallop on a holiday beach, and by the time I met Jasmine and her eight horses. I no longer wanted to ride but liked to turn them out in a field, lead them about, or bring them back in. I was never afraid of a horse, even one that had gone loco and kicked her in the arm.

Now, however, I live in the middle of nowhere. For the first time in my life, I could have a horse and of course I had been thinking about it for some time when 1 November came, and it was the Albox horse fair. I went, saying I was going to look and I looked and came back with....

Well, what could be more English than this? What do English women do in Spain: they complain about how Spanish people don't love animals and then they open a donkey sanctuary. Or maybe they go and buy a donkey. A donkey: less glamorous than a horse, but much more practical, which is the way a lot of my life’s wishes have turned out, including, one might say, my husband.

I say “a donkey,” though actually it is one and a half, or one and two halves, as it is pregnant and has a five-month old male foal, which will grow up to be a stallion and kick and bite. It could have been worse: I was looking longingly at a small fat pony too, only at the last minute I did wonder what Sandy would say when he got back from his travels.
Juan Mañas, who, for reasons of his own, apparently urgently wanted me to buy a donkey, egged me on in all this. It clearly wasn’t just to get the work repairing the stable, because he is already out of pocket on the amount of time we have spent dealing with the huge bureaucracy involved in buying an animal here; it appears to be partly an appetite for striking the deal and partly the farmer in him – as he has said before, he would really rather be farming than building. I had mentioned in passing that I would, maybe, like a donkey. The idea lodged in Juan’s head, and he periodically mentioned donkeys he knew of or had seen, to which I made theoretical noises of interest, until the day of the Albox feria, or animal fair, which of course I agreed to visit.

The feria was good stuff: a motley collection of gipsies, onlookers, old farmers and stragglers collected in the dry river bed under the bridge, wagons of animals, including very decorated horses for the afternoon’s horse show, and a number of donkeys. I met Juan under the bridge; he was with his nephew David, who, going against the stereotype, has a small donkey sanctuary: strictly not for business, he said, but to breed and preserve Andalucian donkeys which are dying out in the area.. Of course, the English tourist perception of the Spanish as “cruel to donkeys,” likely has far less to do with being Spanish than being poor farmers, being nice to animals coming somewhere lower down the hierarchy of needs than feeding yourself and your family. Now that Spain is richer and more developed, I would guess that is changing, though I suspect there will always be more pride, and less sentiment, towards animals.

There were three types of donkey at the fair, I learned: the Andalucian donkey, larger and grey, with a smoother coat; the Romanian donkeys, smaller and a different colour, and the small Moroccan ones, quite furry and reddish. Meanwhile, the owner of the two donkeys we had our eye on was circling, Juan having primed him before hand. He was an ancient, tortoise like individual with a couple of teeth, accompanied by a burly son: they were dead keen to close the deal and after a bit of chat, surrounded by a circle of interested onlookers, mainly old, toothless men, we went off to the office of Agriculture and Fisheries, which is where you do these things. Inevitably, this meant waiting about and eventually the vet being called, and saying, after a bit of discussion, that I needed to get a “guia,” - a stud book (or something of that kind), which I couldn’t do in Albox but must do in Tabernas.

I went to Tabernas with Juan a few days later, and spent some time with the nice man in the Agriculture department in Tabernas. He explained in detail why I needed a book, and spent some time understanding my name and address and copying them out. He and Juan discussed who they knew in Lubrín, the vendors, and eventually the fact that he needed a certificate from the Ayuntiamento, town hall, in Lubrin, to check there was no objection to my having a donkey. What a nuisance, he said, but then lo and behold, Juan knew Domingo in the Ayuntiamentio, because his wife Maribel works in Juan’s office. Juan got Domingo on the phone and asked him if he minded Julia la Inglesa having a donkey and he didn’t, so that was good. Good, said the Tabernas man, then what you do next is you go to Lubrin and get it in writing and fax it over. He was very agreeable and kept saying nothing was a problem, said that was fine, and eventually gave me a certificate with an animal registration number I could use for any animals I bought. We then got instructions about how the lorry transporting the donkey needed to be disinfected, and how I needed a certificate of disinfection, and how I would be wise to take out insurance for cadaver removal, should my donkey die, as this was very expensive, more than the value of the donkey, if you didn’t pay the insurance of only 5 euro a year. I said I would have the cadaver insurance, and we discussed where this would be done, and what numbers I needed to put on the form. Then we went back to Lubrin and went to the cooperative about the cadaver insurance, and they also took copies of the forms and said they would see about it. Then we went to see Domingo, who said again he had no issue with me having a donkey and got a girl to type that up on a bit of paper and stamp it and fax it.

The next day, we set off for an hour’s drive to Ulula del Rio, where the old toothless man lived with the donkeys, and, it turns out, a lot of horses and other animals he trades, the plan being to go with him to Albox and do the deal. It was a beautiful day, again, and I felt pretty excited, even though it was only a donkey: I didn’t sleep that much the night before.

On the way, I noted to Juan that I assumed there was no actual Rio in Ulula, since there are no rivers anywhere here. No. Was there ever? Of course, he said, for instance, he knew it was there in 1937 because he had seen a picture. Also, he added, when his father went off to the Civil War, in the late 30s, he had to take a train from Zurgena, and they crossed the river there, where there is now a road bridge, but was not in those days. They crossed on a donkey, of course, and Juan’s father said the water was up to his waist. So the climate must have changed dramatically here: there are now only dry river beds everywhere, but sixty, seventy years ago, they ran with rivers.

Meanwhile, Juan was very stressed: he was supposed to be in three other places, and when we got there – as usual, we were meeting at a petrol station - the old man was not there. Eventually, his son turned up in a beat up truck and said the old man couldn’t come as he was elsewhere with the horses. This meant we couldn’t do the deal, and would have to meet them in Albox tomorrow instead, he said, sorry, but there you go, ok. It wasn’t at all ok: we had driven for an hour or more, and now couldn’t collect the donkeys that evening, having got the chico with the disinfected lorry on standby. This put Juan and me in sour moods in different ways; me because I wasn’t getting my donkeys that day, and Juan because he felt it reflected badly on him – and no doubt Andalucia and Spain - if the deal didn’t go as planned: we drove off sulking. After a while, and after venting my feelings about people who get you to drive an hour to meet them and then have other arrangements, I asked him if he had done business with the vendor before. Juan got excited and said absolutely not, and if he had known they were gipsies, he wouldn’t have bought a donkey from them. Oh, they were gipsies? Yes, it turned, out, and so “no tienen palabra,” he said, they don’t keep their word, or more exactly in Spanish, they don’t have a word to keep, or the concept of keeping their word.

I told him that my sister had married a gipsy, but it had turned out badly; he had turned out badly. Yes, Juan said, they are very clever and when they are young, they have something – but…. You can’t trust them, and they don’t like to work, which is why they trade horses. We drove on, thinking our thoughts.

After a few minutes, Juan suddenly spoke. Vamos a hacer una cosa – here’s what we are going to do …We would not go to Albox and try to get the vet to do the paperwork without the vendors. He doesn’t like it when things don’t work out and like many Spanish people I have dealt with, he is liable to try to find a solution to a problem rather than give up.

To my astonishment, this worked. It seems to be often the way here - you are presented with a huge and seemingly impenetrable pile of bureaucratic paper for every simple transaction, but in the end people seem inclined to disregard it and with one stroke someone, usually the official in charge of it, cuts through it with one snip.

We spent about half an hour with the vet, stamping bits of paper, and apparently issuing me with the papers I needed to do the deal. Like the Tabernas man, he seemed absolutely committed to helping us get through the bureaucracy he was obliged to impose on us. Towards the end of a lot of computer forms and rubber stamps, he realised we were missing a bit of paper, and did a lot of quite theatrical “oh no – what are we going to do?” It turned out that we didn’t have a disinfection certificate for the donkey. Yes, he said, what can I do? You need this as well as for the vehicle! We haven’t got it! What are we going to do? How are we going to resolve this? Let me see…In the end, he and Juan between them worked out that it would be possible either for Juan to arrange for a vet from Lubrin to do this, or for Juan to pick this up from the vendor, or from the vendor’s vet, when he collected the donkey, and then drop it in to him afterwards. Problem solved, and relief all round. All in all, we had about ten different bits of paper at the end, and Juan was twitching like mad. We drove like the wind back to where we had left his van, and he went off to arrange for straw to be delivered. Before he went he insisted I print out the photos I had taken of the donkeys at the fair, and give him copies, so that he could make sure the gipsies didn’t swap the ones they were selling for different animals.

I am expecting the donkeys around 10.30 tonight, and old Cristobal and young Juan are down at the stable digging and blocking up holes.

Meanwhile, at last, the visitors have all gone. Just as well: I had turned into a cross between Basil and Sybil Fawlty, with the worse qualities of both, as far as guests were concerned. The weather is still beautiful: a blue sky every day, cool mornings and evenings but T- shirt weather in the day. Perfect for riding a donkey, if you have one.


La matanza

The donkeys arrived as planned, late at night, anxious from their drive. Penelope Cruz (as we have christened the mother) was sweating and very much did not want to go into the stable; it took three men to shove her from behind in the end. Luca, the baby, followed her in reasonably agreeably, though he did give someone a bite. By morning, they were considerably better, and placated with bread and apples: they need feeding up and Penelope clearly thinks little of straw. We turned them out into the little sloping field by the stable and the next day I took them out for a walk – that is, they took me. Luca rolled in the dust and galloped about uncontrollably while I tried to lead Penelope with a makeshift halter – we still don’t have a proper one. She was fine when going in the direction she wanted, but when I suggested she go back in the field it was hands on pushing and pulling as she dug all her hooves in and lent backwards. They ate a formidable amount again: I was wondering how to get alfafa and dry feed as I still have no trailer and the cooperative doesn’t deliver, when Pablo told me he would organise a delivery from the man who does his goat feed – big relief, as it looks as if Penelope will eat many times more than Juan said she would. His approach is pretty Spanish “a donkey is fine on just a bit of straw, not much water, nothing else…” – and my explanation that I liked to spoil my pets was met with a bit of a blank look. Pablo, however, is much more of my mind: he likes animals in good condition and said that certainly a donkey needed dry food and alfafa, which I should not worry about, he would get it for me and ya esta, there you are.

After all that animal excitement, came more. Today, it was the pig matanza – a big red-letter day in the calendar here. La matanza is when they “sacrificar,” - kill the pig, and make sausages, black pudding, hams, and so on for the rest of the year. Even people who don’t raise pigs buy one and keep it for the matanza, which is a kind of fiesta. We were invited, along with about 20 neighbours, to Pablo and Juana’s, when they were due to kill two of their five huge pigs – something, Pablo confessed, that he did not like doing but which fell to him – his son in law and various other people doing the butchering, a specialist job which requires experience.

I have to say a large part of me wanted to go and see the actual pig slaughtering, which is a bit disgusting, I expect. I did wonder why – the best I could say is that it is one of the few chances you get to confront death in a bloody form – something you hardly see and perhaps shouldn’t want to. Clearly, however, a lot of people do – Spanish people at least - the matanza is all about blood. I am not sure it is blood lust, though of course we are hunting animals and those instincts don’t exactly die easy – after all, our cats carry on catching mice even though we feed them Whiskas. It is more the formidability of death: you would like to just get a bit close to the man with the sickle, to smell his breath, and see what it might be like. It is the real thing. Besides which, you ought to know where your mince and sausages come from, if you eat them, and nobody in Spain is vegetarian.

As it turned out, we got up late, and I heard the pigs squeals as they were stuck echoing from across the rambla, rather than witnessing them in the flesh. It was not long – presumably the knives are sharp and Pablo knew what he was doing. One went around eight, the other later, and we turned up mid-morning, by which time they were both hanging upside down on a wall, and being expertly carved up; blood and organs in washing up bowls and buckets, and the women outside at a table with a hose, turning intestines inside out for sausages. I had a go at this: it is not easy, rather like putting on Durex only infinitely longer. Two fingers inside, the hose, and then the whole thing goes inside out. A smelly business, but in the end, a pile of what looked like pink stockings filled a large bowl and by the end of the afternoon we had black pudding – chorizo comes tomorrow.

Meanwhile, the matanza lunch was being prepared: pig meat, of course, and a huge cast iron pan of migas, the traditional dish made from flour and fat and not much else, eaten with peppers and tomatoes. The dish came off the open fire and twenty of us sat round Juana’s front room – a concrete floor and the open fire and not much else – with the big pan in the middle on its iron legs. Everyone has a spoon and eats from the pan, then the bottle of wine goes round and the men aimed it at their throats from afar – Sandy causing great amusement in the process of perfecting his technique.

Outside, Penelope and Luca, whom I led down from their stable, were grazing below on Pablo’s grass, Penelope wearing an ancient but serviceable halter Pablo provided and Luca running about and rolling in the dust. The men teased me about making them into sausages, but there was general approval of the concept. “Que valiente,” Juana’s mother said, though like everyone she warned me I would need to castrate the male or he would bite. What do you want the male for, anyway? The male animals are generally seen as for meat, and that’s all – whereas a female, with her nice temperament, can be ridden and give you more foals – or in the case of goats, cheese. Juana argued that Luca should be called Javier, which is the name of Penelope Cruz’s novio, boyfriend. I pointed out that he was her son, not her novio, but her son, but she said that in a few months he would be her novio too, given the way male donkeys are, ha ha. There were a few jokes about donkeys after that, much of which I didn’t understand and she said it was better not to, as there were some things it was better not to hear. Meanwhile, the eighty year old neighbour asked where my husband was. Juana pointed him out and he said, oh, well, he was disappointed as when he saw me he wondered if I was single. Consuelo said he was harmless, and you could tie him to the bedpost; he was eighty, so he liked to look, but what could he do? There followed a story about how he had looked down the girls’ cleavages at the fiesta: the young men didn’t bother, he said, but he was going to look if he had a chance. In my time, he said to me, when I was in my prime, the girls used to do this: and he mimed holding your collar together at your neck. More general laughter and jokes about the donkey, and so on, until we went back late, and led Penelope and Luca into the stable, where they seemed quite ready to do and didn’t even eat much, full from grass and exhausted, like children after a birthday party.