Introducing Jaime La Campana

The Land Of The Smiling Mule town hall has a clock tower, and as the crow flies it's only a few hundred metres from where I live. The clock chimes once for the half hour, and on the hour it chimes the relevant number of times, twice. In other words, at say eleven o'clock, it will chime eleven times and two minutes later it chimes eleven again. I've never understood why it chimes twice but I like it, even when the windows are open and it sounds really loud. As if that wasn't enough the chimes are interspersed by the voice of Jaime La Campana, who shouts "DOH" after every gong.
Jaime lives with his mother at the top of the street, near the hags. He's difficult to put an age to, but I imagine he's in his early thirties. His mother dresses him in over sized track pants which are pulled up to his chest, into which he tucks his jumper. I see him most mornings going down the hill with his mother to the shops, and later he (literally) pulls her back up the hill. He's a shy man, if I say hello he turns away with a huge smile on his face, but once I've walked on a couple of paces he turns back and shoots me with his ray gun. But Jaime was blessed with a booming voice. So going back to the example of eleven o'clock; Imagine twenty two loud gongs and twenty two very loud "DOH"s ... nuff said.

The street where I live, Hag Central

When I first moved to The Land Of The Smiling Mule I wrote about the hags who congregate at the top of the street. At any given time there'll be four or five of them hanging out and cackling at the passing cars. I hate walking past them. Driving past is fine, they just shout "adios" as I pass and then I'm gone before I can hear what else they say. (Note: It's a bit confusing at first when you pass people on the street and they say "goodbye" instead of "hello". Basically it's used when there isn't time to go into a full sentence, i.e. "hello, can't stop I'm in a hurry, bye.") But when I'm walking I hear what they're saying as I approach and after I've passed. It usually goes something like this:

"...The bin men are late this morning. Terrible. I could complain. You should. I would but it's José, he likes his lunch on the table at two thirty. How's his leg? Wait, look, here comes the guiri again (that's me). What do you think's in that bag? Don't know, what do guiris carry in bags? Look at that shirt. Aww it's a shame. He needs a pullover. (As I pass) Hello, good morning. How are you? Not driving today? Yes, it's good to walk isn't it? That bag looks heavy. Yes, we're in a rush too. Bye then. Careful you don't slip on that...ooh, are you alright? Bye. There's nothing of him. If he fell he'd really hit the floor carrying a heavy bag like that. And spoil that shirt. Where on earth did he buy that? Not round here, that's for sure..."

You'd think after almost five years I'd be used to it, or join them, but I just feel really intimidated by them. In the beginning I assumed they thought I didn't understand what they were saying, but that can't be the case because I speak to them in Spanish. Maybe they think I'm deaf.

La Tomatina

As I write, the little town of Buñol in Valencia is waking up, its population swollen massively with people from around the world. The town council will be busy putting protective covers over the buildings in the main square, a ham is being fixed to the top of a tall, greased pole and 150,000 kilos of tomatoes are no doubt already loaded into several trucks. Sounding strange? It gets better.

The crowd of thousands will be working each other up into an excited frenzy. Hundreds will try to climb the greased pole to get their hands on the prized ham. The atmosphere will increase as the morning passes, everybody anxious for the main event ... ¡LA TOMATINA!

Yes it's that time of year again. At mid-day thousands of people will squeeze into the main square of Buñol where trucks will dump 150,000 kilos of tomatoes onto them and the worlds biggest food fight will start.

Said to have started in 1945, there are several versions of how the fiesta started. One claims to have its origins in a simple food fight with a couple of brothers throwing the tomatoes from their salads at each other, another tells of locals throwing tomatoes at a street musician, whilst another dares the claim it started during an anti Franco rally. We'll never know. But what we do know is that the fight will start with the dumping of the tomatoes and last for two hours. By the end the crowd is exhausted, the square is knee deep in red mush and nothing, and nobody is spared. At the end the crowd is marshaled out of the square and hosed down by council workers, yes I mean the crowd is hosed down, then the square.

I must be running on a full tank of Spanishness because I love this and wish I was there.

For no particular reason

The great thing about digital photography is if you take enough photos sooner or later you'll get a result. I took this photo a few years ago and it's still my favourite. I love the depth of the shadows, the solid black against the texture and colour of the cobbles. I've no idea what I did, probably nothing because the camera is set to auto most of the time, but I've never managed to get that depth of shadow since.

Is it just me?

I've been reading somebody else's experiences of being a foreigner in Spain, and one of the things he said really struck a chord with me. He was talking about "spanishness" being something he had to wear, like a coat or a hat. Once he had his spanishness on he felt equipped to cope with whatever this country and its people threw at him, he almost became more Spanish. I really like this train of thought and completely understand what he means.



This thing, this spanishness, needs feeding to survive. By speaking the language, watching television (oh please, don't make me do that) or simply being with Spanish people for instance, keeps your spanishness levels topped up. It's not a language thing, that's different again, it's about being open to all the things which set us apart, the culture gaps, including language. When my spanishness is satiated I love being here, I take much more notice of all the positive aspects of life here and feel part of it. I think in spanish and can generally switch between languages without too much trouble. However, if I forget to feed that spanishness it withers. I don't notice the changes, it's a whiley demon that spanishness, it simply starts to fade. Then without notice something will happen which REALLY winds me up, or I answer the phone and realise I don't understand what's being said to me. What's happened is my spanishness levels have got so low I've reverted to being an anxious northern European, not entirely sure what's going on.



Spain is one of the noisiest countries in the world. When I'm running on a full tank of spanishness I not only accept the noise, I often don't even hear it. We once had a friend staying and we were sat chatting, he suddenly went white and his mouth fell open. "what the **** was that!" he spat out. We looked at each other, then back at him, realising he was genuinely worried. "What was what?" I asked. "That noise, it sounded like a huge aircraft landing outside." It took a couple of seconds before we understood what he was talking about, it was the gas man driving a truck full of metal gas bottles at speed down our cobbled street. We didn't even hear it. There was another time when, looking back, I'd let my spanishness levels drop. We were trying to sleep and our neighbours had gone to sit in the street where it was cool and chat to whoever passed by. I lay in bed tutting, letting myself get wound up and getting more agitated by the minute. In the end I couldn't stand it any longer so threw open the bedroom window and shouted...

Another symptom of low spanishness levels is opening your mouth to speak and then listening to the rubbish that falls out of it. You're thinking in English and about to speak in Spanish, or more acurately you're thinking in English and about to speak in tongues.

...and shouted, "excuse me, we are trying to hear. I mean, listening. No wait, we are asleep and the listening is a problem because tomorrow we have to go to work."

Pfff that told them!

We were adopted by a cat burglar

It was about this time last year. I was going to hang some washing out to dry when something moved in the shadows and caught my eye. It was the scrawniest of kittens, filthy dirty, so thin I could see it's bones sticking out and it's eyes were almost glued shut. I did a double take because I was on the roof terrace and there was no way this thing could have got up there, it really was in a bad way.

The vet said it may not survive. It had flu, an infection of the ears and nose, an eye ulcer and to top it all off it was badly dehydrated and half starved. He gave it treatments for the ticks, fleas, worms etc and told us to take it back in a day or two if it was still alive. It was, so we did, and this is how the summer of 2007 progressed. The kitten started to put weight on and get stronger but we were still going to the vets every few days. She turned out to be quite a character, always looking for trouble and a really tough little thing, we called her Trevor. We found out much later that a neighbour found Trev on the street and realised she wasn't going to make it unless somebody took her in, so he dumped her on our terrace.

About three months later Trevor got signed off by the vet. Apart from the ulcer in the eye she was healthy, strong and playful. However, she started to do something I've never known a cat to do before. She started bringing us presents. At first it was plants (with roots) that we assumed she was digging up from neighbours gardens. She'd drag these things across the terrace, down the stairs, through the house and deposit them at our feet. Then she progressed to carrier bags. We started finding bags from stores we don't use around the house. Then she must have found access to a house which was being renovated because we got wall tiles, insulating foam, unopened bags of nails and screws, paint brushes and sand paper. Then we got the watch. That was when we decided it was getting serious and told all the neighbours what was happening. She now has the reputation as the local cat burglar and when people see her looking in their windows they quickly shut the curtains and close the windows in case she's casing her next job.

Trev relaxing after being out on a job.

Comfort and safety vs the hard sell

I recently had to take four flights, four flights too many. Well, I didn't have to take them, nobody forced me, but to get where I wanted to be it was the best option. As a kid I used to think travel was, or rather, must have been seeing as I'd never done it, very sophisticated. When I did eventually start travelling I'd turn up at the airport early because that was all part of the experience and worthy of enjoying in itself. I'd sit myself down in a swanky café and feel very self important as I sipped a coffee and watch the well dressed world pass by. Then there was the flight. The ever smiling, immaculately dressed cabin crew made me and all the other wannabe sophisticates feel comfortable and safe. We'd all flick through the in-flight magazine and rip open the goody bag of socks, face mask, headphones, fresh wipes and blanket, deciding what was worth slipping into our cabin bags. (Why did we all take those face masks home?)


Fast forward a couple of decades and it's a completely different story.


Firstly, booking a flight online is like a multiple choice exam in self preservation. Do I really want to fly through the night just to save the fifty euros? Do I pay more for extra leg room only to find everybody else who has done the same has children? Then there's paying in advance for a meal before you've seen a menu, but hey, I'll be hungry so better had. Lastly you have to decide how many bags you'll pay to have put in the hold. That's easy enough on the outbound flight, but usually a complete unknown on the return. Oh no, that wasn't the last "option", finally you get to the point of clicking "book flight" when a little window pops up and asks you if you'd like to pay to offset your carbon footprint. Screaming "NO" at the computer screen is pointless, childish and a complete waste of time, but it sometimes helps.

I stopped turning up early at the airport a long time ago. Once you've checked in and gone through security you want to spend as little time as possible in "Departures". The swanky cafés have gone, replaced by the big name coffee shops you can find on any corner of this global village. When you do find somewhere to sit your coffee is served in a polystyrene cup with a plastic spoon. I once asked a waiter in an airport coffee shop why I couldn't have a proper cup and a real spoon and was told, "it was for my own safety." I had no idea I was putting myself at risk every time I drank a cup of coffee outside an airport, I'd better check the small print on my life insurance. As for watching the world pass by, it's downright depressing. I couldn't help but notice everybody looked apprehensive, slightly nervous and paranoid. Tempers were short, queues were long and everybody wanted to pass through this slice of nowhere as quickly as possible.

The cabin crew still smiled as they walked along the aircraft aisle telling people "no you can't" but somehow the smiles were tired and well worn. They tried to sell us upgrades to better seats, food, drinks, duty free, lottery tickets, toys and headphones. At one point I asked if the air conditioning could be turned down seeing as we were all cold, I was tutted at, smiled to and ignored. An hour later I asked for a blanket and was told, "you can buy a comfort pack which includes a blanket and a pillow for €5." But the best sales pitch came as we were coming in to land at Luxor. We were asked if we wanted to buy bottles of water to take off the aircraft because "this was our last chance to buy English water." I think we'd landed before I managed to scrape my chin up off the floor!

Luna Llena del Castillo

Making up my mind

Browsing through the Men section of The Times I was intrigued by an article which stated a well known drugstore in UK has just launched a line of make-up for men. OOPS, there's mistake number one. It's not make-up, it's guyliner and manscara. I guess calling it make-up demasculates it, but what do I know? The article went on to say that this new make-up is a huge success with metrosexual men across the country and when applied properly was subtle and needn't make the wearer look like an Emo. Being on the furthest edge of popular culture here in the Land Of The Smiling Mule I had a vague idea what a metrosexual man was but decided to do a quick google search just to be on the safe side. Amazingly, a metrosexual man is heterosexual but takes an interest in his appearance and "demonstrates other homosexual characteristics". I chose to gloss (see what I did there?) over that remark and keep focused. I still needed to know what an Emo was and why metrosexual make-up wearing men wouldn't want to look like one. Back to google. Depending on the website, Emo is either short for "emotional" or "def not coz that sux and anyway itz sooo lame". So that clears that up. However, I did learn that Emo's wear lots of black make-up, look a lot like punks and clearly do not take an interest in their appearance (sorry Emo's), which obviously makes them def not gay.

It was an interesting dip into popular culture, short as it was, and I came out the other end a bit wiser. I can hold my head high and proclaim I am not metrosexual. If men want to wear make-up, wear it. Don't buy guyliner which no doubt will be merchandised in a very macho way and probably cost twice the price. Wake up, you're being had. As for the Emo's, enjoy every minute of it, I know I would have done all those years ago if my mum had allowed me to be a punk.

It's been a while

When I moved from civilisation to The Land Of The Smiling Mule I wrote a blog, it helped me make sense of all the new things going on in my life at that time. That time was almost five years ago. A lot has happened and, as expected, even more hasn't.



To be honest the long stretches of boredom and nothingness I expected from my new life didn't really happen. Tarting up the house took up a lot of time, and as I got to know my new neighbours and local characters the inevitable happened and little bits of their lives rubbed off onto mine. I started to care. I've decided it's time to put finger tips to keys again in an attempt to understand how I got to this point, and, more importantly, where I am?



Geographically it's easy, The Land Of The Smiling Mule is one of the White Villages of Andalucia, Spain. It clings to a hillside somewhere between Ronda and Algeciras, trying not to be noticed. All buildings are painted white (obviously), and should anybody try to sneak a bit of colour onto their house the white paint police turn up and give them a stern talking to. Life here is tough. The summer temperatures drift in and out of the late 30's and early 40's, the shadows are warm and the hags throw caution to the none existent wind and roll down their pop socks. In the winter the streets are scented with wood smoke, and onions. I still haven't got my head around the fried onions, but from dawn to dusk, wherever you go you'll smell onions frying. The main cultural event of the year is the Feria de Mayo, where the whole village gets together in friendly rivalry to see whose mule can carry the most cork and which dog has the waggiest tail. Life here is tough and competitive.

So, that's the stage, the set and scenery. All we need now are the characters...