Notes from Ojen, Spain

If you painted a couple of hundred of children’s blocks white then spilled them randomly out, you would have Ojen’s town plan. It also looks a bit like Montreal’s Habitat development, only whitewashed and placed on a steep narrow valley. Ojen is not pronounced owe-en, but owe- back of throat phlegmy-en. This sound is very difficult for an English speaker to make. In Canada, it is a sound that is usually followed by a gob not another syllable. So here we were in a town whose name we could not pronounce. Nothing new there.

If the wind was blowing in the correct direction in Ojen, you can smell the sea, which is about 5 km directly south. The bustling coastal town of Marbella in the Costa del Sol is also located directly south. Ojen’s elevation at about 200m above sea level in a narrow valley means that you can see the Mediterranean, not Marbella. Ojen’s population is about 2000 and they are fiercely proud of their village. So much so that one of the local restaurants discourages tourists. Fortunately, we were warned. Somehow, Ojen has also avoided the expatriate invasion and remains nicely isolated from the over development on the coast.

Leslie is more adept at languages than I am and she quickly took to Spanish. Soon, she was inflecting with a throaty, phlegmy vigour. She took flamenco lessons and her hair seemed to grow in thicker and longer and darker. I would often awaken to the sound of her practicing on the castanets. On Sundays, she was also starting to wear the beautiful tight fitting traditional Spanish dresses with the matching high heels. She practiced dancing until her little feet were sore. Her English even became tinged with a Spanish accent. With her newly acquired large brown eyes, she looked into my eyes and said, ”Signor, chou would make a great bullfighter.” Actually, none of this paragraph is true, I made it up. But I still think it should have happened, then the year off would have been truly worth it.

Yea, there was flamenco in Ojen and we went to see it live, honest, no guff. There were posters, all in Spanish, advertising it as a fund raiser for a charity. It was held in the Ojen flamenco studio and was attended by locals and one other tourist couple from France. We went expecting flamenco dancing. We did not know that in Ojen the tradition of flamenco singing dominates. To tell the truth, we had never heard of flamenco singing.

The show did not start until about 9:30pm which is early by Spanish standards. Nobody could speak English. The locals were friendly as best we could tell. The number of children present easily equalled the number of adults in spite of the late hour. The charity was certainly a worthwhile one as we sat in a crowded, smoke filled auditorium, our thirst quenched by the cheapest alcoholic drinks in our entire journey. It was kind of a self perpetuating process as they plied cigarettes and liquor on us as if to say you’ll be giving this year but receiving next. The fundraiser was for cancer victims, yet they seemed to endorse some of its more obvious causes, alora, as we “Italian” Canadians now say!

The first male singer and guitarist were introduced with no fanfare. They looked at each other dramatically and queued the first song. These people know how to emote. Anguish was conveyed easily with no translation necessary. I know the look of a man in pain and this guy obviously had a gouty big toe with a bamboo shoot tucked under the nail. I almost rushed on to the stage to help him.

They say the guitar player is subservient to the singer, who basically seemed to dictate the cadence of songs. The songs ended with a flourish, their heads held high, proud and content, applause being the obvious next step.

The majority of the singers were young males, early 20-30s but all age groups were represented. There was only one woman who sang and she was very good. They were all locals from Ojen. The pride was palpable in the audience. We were struck by the sense of tradition which must power these songs like a vein of silver through the generations. I don’t know how they do it. As we left, ladies at the door gave us a yellow sunflower and thanked us with a gentle touch on the shoulder. It was a wonderful performance and a privilege to have seen it.

Obviously, this leads me to the tradition of the virgin and the goat. Shortly after we arrived in Ojen, Leslie met an Irishman who lived 3 houses down. Leslie claims that he said there was a yearly festival in Ojen starting the next Thursday. It included a parade led by a goat and a virgin. Please bear with me as I swear I couldn’t make this stuff up.

I duly went to downtown Ojen (about 2 minutes away) with my wife on the appointed night. It was suspiciously quiet considering the magnitude of the event. We did not spot any goats, virgins or parades. Please also keep in mind there is almost no English spoken in Ojen. In retrospect, I’m quite glad there wasn’t, as our questions would have been difficult to explain. Leslie doesn’t give up easily and she continued to be on high alert for goats and/or virgins. More posters were put up in the village but they were difficult to decipher although they did give hints of an upcoming celebration. My enthusiasm was recharged and I too was now on alert.

My butt was still a tad sore after the cycling sojourn over the Alps; bear with me again as there is a point to this. This led me to a Marbella bike shop in search of a comfortable saddle. Diego, who worked in the shop, spoke fluent English and he was from Ojen of all places. I decided to ask him about the festival but carefully left out any mention of goats or virgins. Leslie was angry about this but does not realize what it is like for a man with a sore butt to go about asking questions with respect to either goats and/or virgins without seeming a little conspicuous. I managed to calm her down when Diego told me that their annual festival was approaching the next week from Tuesday until Sunday. He also cautioned, rolling his eyes, that school closes and they party until dawn on most nights. His house was right in the thick of the action on the small town square.

Well, they certainly can party and yes, they can make it until the sun is rising the next day. The festival was a combination of tradition as seen from the photos in the blog and fairground games and rides. Another unconscious theme but obvious to us was the inclusion of all age groups. The seniors had the best seats for the musical performances and games.

The terrain of Ojen is similar to a hike to Everest base camp up and down with many serpentine steep pedestrian pitches between the whitewashed houses. The frail elderly are only assisted if they have some obvious disability. Otherwise, the seniors risk life and limb every day negotiating the terrain once they put a foot out the front door. Our elderly neighbour, Anna, looked as if she would fall over any moment, yet I would see her perched on the steepest cobbled slopes, cane in hand, several blocks from her home. One false move and she would be in Marbella. I used to think it was cardboard cut out of Anna that somebody shifted from place to place to give the illusion of an energetic senior adrenalin junkie. However, there was no mistaking that this was the real Anna. You could tell by her shrill voice and raised cane as she made a point to someone.

Anna terrified me, all four and half feet of her. One day when Leslie was out, Anna dropped by to visit me. She was determined to convey something in Spanish. I did not understand a single one of the 600 Spanish words she uttered, although “capito” seemed to be the most frequent. I said “no espanol”, which only encouraged her to shout louder and louder as if somehow the increased volume would trump my incomprehension. I am sure she thought I was both deaf and stupid.

Unfortunately, Anna has an erosive carcinoma right smack in the middle of her nose which hasn’t been attended to. Through the 2 cm symmetrical gaping hole, you can see her nasal septum perfectly dividing her nostrils. When she was shouting at me, I can’t be sure but I think something went flying out of there towards me. I tried not to stare at it but it was literally a black hole that sucked light and my vision directly towards it.

When she had enough of my “deafness”, she brusquely pushed me aside and walked directly into our kitchen. She repeatedly flicked a switch for an outside light as she continued my lesson. I finally said “ah, ah, me capito” in my best Spanish. I thought that Anna wanted the light turned on so as to make her return journey at night safer. She smiled back at me with a twinkle in her eye thinking “the dumb, deaf Canadian finally gets it”. I thought we had been leaving it on already but as I watched her teeter off and I dutifully turned the light back on.

The next day, she started screaming at me again “capito, capito” and pointing towards the light. With the aid of a translator a day or two later, we learned she wanted me to keep the light OFF to save electricity, alora! I never found out what “capito”meant. I think we were still friends. Whenever I saw her again she screeched a friendly “hola” followed by 599 other words. I never saw her without a twinkle in her eye.

p.s. The annual parade was led by a saint who was headless. Fortunately, he found his head and carried it with him under his arm. Leslie remains on high alert for any parades led by a goat and virgin.