Tag: Spain

A Day Off

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I had one of those days today. In a good way. I know that sentence has connotations but I actually enjoyed myself. Last night I discovered a trip I had half planned wasn’t going to happen. I had been speaking with someone about helping them sail from Greece to the Canary Islands but he changed his route and is already in Italy. It’s not the end of the world but I had invested a certain amount of energy in this as something to do and it was disappointing for it not to happen. In this day and age of Covid-19, being able to do many things is a bit of a struggle so I was pretty pleased to have found myself on such an interesting trip to a place I had yet to visit.

One thing that really excited me was that I planned on writing these and having them revolve around the sailing trip. I’m not exactly sure how but I know when I do eventually cross the Atlantic at some point I would like to keep a log of sorts on the psychological affects of being at sea for so long. That is a rough idea and I doubt it would be exactly like that as I go off on a tangent or find myself with so little to talk about I end up writing a whole piece on a game of cards or a dolphin. That would be a psychological thing I guess but still, sailing across an ocean is from what I hear a far less exciting thing than people imagine it would be. From here to Spain could have been a test run on that to a degree but alas.

Today then I woke up and decided it would be a good day to have a holiday. I did no boat work and went for a drive. I stopped, I drove, I got a coffee, I got a beer, I swam a little, I sat by the sea. I basically enjoyed myself. Despite being in Greece for a month I have been on slight work mode most of the time and I realised today I need to know when to just have a complete day off. It also means when I have days on I need to be a little more disciplined and efficient as allowing jobs to just drag on is enough to make anyone mad.

What next then. Well I don’t really know. I’m not sure I’m ready to step away from the beach and the sun but it’s seemingly the worst time ever to be travelling around, it’s also probably the worst time ever to be in the UK though so that doesn’t help. Come January I may need to start saving my visa days in the EU too so it looks like I may just have to return to the UK. I know nobody has any sympathy for me and I don’t blame you. We all find things to be frustrated about but in truth I know I’ll just do something else. It’s not what you’re doing but whether you’re making the most out of what you’re doing I guess. I’m sure there’s some wisdom in there somewhere.

An Ancient Foe

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The humble mosquito. What a remarkable creature. I once made a deal with them on an infested coach journey in Thailand that if they left me alone I would them. It wasn’t until three years later when I was in Spain that I broke the terms they had stuck to. Ten years later and the war has become one of attrition, both sides too caught up in their base instinct for survival.

I find them fascinating creatures. They have brains and they can sense, smell and see. They are attracted to the carbon dioxide we emit as well as the heat of our bodies. I discovered a long time ago that having a cold shower stops them coming so much. Them coming being hunting of course. We are hunted. They may be small but they hunt us. I wonder if they hunt other animals. I assume so, they can’t just be after us even though we do have such easily accessible and soft skin. Yet they keep coming even after we have killed them and I imagine other animals would be far worse at swatting them. They may have brains but they must be small. Saying that they’re sneaky and they can get places you can’t imagine possible. Tonight like the last few nights, despite closing everything there always seems to be more. I wonder if they come in during the day and just wait.

When I lived in Athens I had a net around my bed. I couldn’t have survived without it and wondered how my flatmates who didn’t could sleep while also having their window open because of the heat. My wall was splattered with dead mosquitoes. It was my trophy wall I like to believe was a warning to others. It didn’t seem to work. That old familiar buzzing in the ear. Yet there’s never anything there when you turn around or turn on the light. Was I imagining it? Am I going mad? Yet we eventually see them and those ancient instincts rise to the surface as our eyes lock on the target and the battle begins. The traditional hand clap or if patient enough a wall slap.

When I lived in Lesvos the ceiling to my room was so high they worked out they could just hide up there and they would be safe. Eventually my old school changing room training kicked in and I realised I could whip the ceiling with my towel. When in Nepal I would pull my sheet up to my head and when I could hear them close would slap the side of my head to get them. While this was ridiculous for the obvious reasons it wasn’t until one day I forced one deep into my ear by the force of the air. The beating of it’s tiny wings like a marching band on my ear drum. The only solution being to pour water in and drown it. The next day in the lake it finally washed free.

The real moment of truth comes when they land on you. Do you quickly go for the kill or do you play the long game. The mosquito lands on your arm, it’s still looking around unsure whether it is safe to proceed. Rubbing it’s back legs together in delight as it eyes up it’s meal. So you wait. It tentatively tests the surface, look close enough and you can see it jabbing around with it’s microscopic needle for the perfect spot. You watch and you wait. Even once it has found where it will eat and has made it’s incision you still wait. Let it get those first mouthfuls of your blood. Let it relax. But still wait. Only once it has had it’s second taste, only once it has become docile and drunk on you do you reclaim what is yours with ease.

Yet I respect them. They keep coming. They’re like the ultimate predator, or they would be if you viewed them all in their entirety as one sentient being. Because they seem that way sometimes. It seems sometimes like all those years ago I broke a deal with that one sentient being and am destined to spend eternity paying off the reparations for my treachery. Well so be it. Let the war go on. We have nothing left to us now anyway but our base instincts. Why not let them play out.

A Night Ramble

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Well the summer is coming to an end and I fancy a little ramble in nature somewhere. I have been trying to think of something to write tonight, nothing has taken my fancy to be horrified by in the news. I was horrified by someone I know being morally outraged on his Facebook wall by someone else with an admittedly unsavoury opinion leaving his ideas in the comments section of a post. The moral irony was missed as he screen shot the comment, told everyone to share it and revealed he had already spoken to this bad mans employers. These are the moments you realise the baying mob should stop believing in their own hype. We are going to finish the pizzas at the end of this bank holiday weekend. The kids go back to school and the tourists disappear from the village. I’ll have a couple of weeks to sort some things out and rest. I’ve already booked my tickets to go to Greece in the middle of September. Don’t worry you’ll hear all about it when it’s happening.

I wonder what it’s going to be like going abroad again. I mentioned in an early post back in November or December I think about how many flights I took last year. Spain a few times, Ireland, Sweden, Greece, Sardinia – actually maybe not Greece, I can’t remember – but my carbon footprint must have been horrendous. The amount of meat I would have to stop eating just to bring balance. I’m not quite sure that’s how it works though. I’ve made up for it this year. Zero flights so far and I’ve barely left the village. Covid has been good for my carbon karma. I’ll make up for it next year don’t you worry. It is good to take a break though, change some habits. I mentioned previously how I have been looking back, not nostalgically but almost remembering and experiencing certain elements once more. It brought a contentment and allowed a certain re-evaluation of certain ideas I had. Who I am. Such a cliche. In many ways this year has not always been easy but it has been incredibly beneficial. I doubt I’m alone in thinking this and I doubt I’m alone in thinking I am a different person now to pre-lockdown me. Total cliche. The talk is of the world and society being different permanently but the idea that individual people may have taken the time to understand themselves a little more without the pressures of normality. What a wonderful experience all round. Time with the family. Time with yourself.

But now that is all in the past apparently. A friend of the unbelieving nature suggested a new Europe-wide lockdown has been planned for the 18th of September and he used a random article in a random newspaper to prove it. I suspect that date may pass without incidence. It doesn’t mean winter won’t bring a spike though but can you imagine going through all that again in a miserable British winter. Fuck that. The British people are not mentally strong enough for that. And deary me I just remembered a no-deal Brexit will be happening then too. That’s probably a good time to stop this little ramble. It’s not quite nature but it’s the best I can get this late in the day. There’s no need to even go anywhere near that little rabbit hole of a shit show. Good night.

Split Peas & Split People

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This might end up being one of those pieces which becomes a few random thoughts that aren’t related but I feel are worth mentioning. To begin with I’m having a nightmare trying to cook split peas. I was hoping to make a nice soup with sweet potato and carrot but these bloody peas just won’t cook. I soaked them for over twenty-four hours and have now had them boiling away for at least an hour to no avail. I enjoy cooking. I also enjoy eating and this enjoyment of eating and of having no money over the years means I’m not a bad cook. I don’t make enough soups though. A split pea soup sounds just lovely.

I’m a total romantic. I’m listening to Spanish Civil War music and dreaming of what could have been. It was such a glorious and horrific time. We like to imagine antifa and the antifascist as some new phenomenon but it’s been going as long as the fascist gave themselves such a name. I have mentioned this particular war a few times but it really is another example of the people being screwed over by power. Not just power in Spain but through the neutrality of countries like the UK. Franco had Hitler’s Germans and Mussolini’s Italians, the Republic ended up having no choice but relying on the Soviets who took over as best they could and did more damage than help. France may have been a Republic but it was never built on the ideals of decentralisation and the anarcho-collectives. The European powers as ever showed their true colours, for old powers like the British, Fascism was infinitely more palatable than people having true power. These things are contagious, they must be quashed.

The Twentieth Century was just a long list of outside interference with vested interests. Allende, Chile and Pinochet is always an easy one to bring up but let’s not forget Cambodia and Margaret Thatcher’s refusal to recognise the new communist government that replaced the genocidal maniac Pol Pot. She was also a bit of a fan of apartheid South Africa. Let’s not forget the British influence upon the overthrow of a democratically elected government in Iran that wanted to nationalise oil production, the dictatorship of the new Shah, a western puppet, more agreeable. General Suharto in Indonesia who killed a quarter of the population but who provided the Australians, as well as the US and Brits, with cheap access to natural minerals. Yugoslavia, the last Socialist country in Europe after the fall of the Soviet Union was never allowed to exist. It is always easier to control smaller broken up and angry states than one larger one.

Talking of apartheid, Palestine is another obvious one. Obvious because it is still going on not because it is ever really talked about. You wouldn’t know it if you just watched western media but Israel have been bombing the shit out of the Gaza Strip for eight straight days now. Apparently Hamas fired two homemade rockets out and the Israeli’s felt the need to obliterate them in return. Eight days and not a peep.

Anyway my split peas have burnt. I got carried away and forgot to check on them. I give up.

BR#Ten – The Old Man & The Sea

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There is a certain romanticism in literature. Not always the stories themselves but sometimes the stories of the stories, the stories of the creators of the stories. I understood that for the first time when a friend of mine told me the life of Lord Byron and proceeded to explain why I didn’t need to read any of his work, his life was the work. Ernest Hemingway is one of these people. He is there in the echelons of folk lore, another author to define an art and inspire a craft. This is actually my first Hemingway and considering my interest in and admiration for those involved in the Spanish Civil War, how I’ve not read For Whom The Bell Tolls is beyond me.

The protagonist is an old man called Santiago who has now gone eighty-four days at sea without catching anything and is seen as unlucky. On his eighty-fifth day, which is also a number of special significance apparently, he hooks the largest Marlin he has ever seen and allows it to pull him and his skiff, tiring itself out in the process for three days. This is a titanic battle between two great warriors who have lived and survived in their respective worlds up until this point, finally coming face to face. He needs this in a way and while he talks to himself of the money he will make it is evidently never really about this.

The Old Man & The Sea is a fable. There will surely be multiple essays and books upon what the lesson within it is but for me it is one of heroism, determination and acceptance. Acceptance in a way despite the fact he doesn’t accept defeat at any point until he has no choice. His acceptance comes from life and experience at sea; knowing that defeat can happen, but we fight until our last and then some more and if success doesn’t come we just carry on as it’s all part of everything.

Hemingway creates an air of romanticism around Santiago and it is easy to imagine him sitting by the harbour when in Cuba and watching the weather beaten old fishermen going out and if not knowing their stories then creating them. It is one of epic proportions in three days and one hundred pages. His simple use of language allows for you to easily get into the story but it is also this language which reveals all the hidden meaning as the story progresses. It definitely makes you want to jump in a skiff and set sail. The sea is a powerful and unforgiving mistress but she will teach you all you ever need to know.

An animation by Aleksander Petrov

Relax…All Will Be Fine

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As someone who has spent time abroad and socialised with people who do not either serve food or run hotels, it has long been brought to my attention that the British people have somewhat of a reputation for consuming large quantities of alcohol. While I don’t deny others countries do drink large amounts too, or at least the fun ones do, we, along with the Irish come to think of it, are renowned for being the drunks of Europe. This then seems to have been confirmed with the latest news relating to the lockdown we’re facing in the UK.

There has been much debate about what exactly should be classed as an essential service and it’s one of those issues that nearly every wannabe expert has an opinion on. Construction sites for example have been a highly controversial issue because while they can’t ban construction that relates to potential virus related work, the guy building the patio next door could probably not be classed as essential and immediately necessary. It would be nice to sit out in the sun with a nice gin and tonic while isolating though come to think of it, so that’s a toughie. We have though taken it to a level that only the comics writing this black comedy could have dreamt of. As the country battles a world wide pandemic; Off Licences of all things have been deemed as being of the utmost importance and essential to the smooth running of the country. For those from countries that use other names an off licence is what we call our bottle shops / liquor shops / alcohol shops. Yes they serve but one purpose.

It is important in times like this to be honest and admit there is something absurd about this that makes me proud. Cultures need something that sets them apart from each other; the Italians talk incessantly, the Greeks argue for pleasure and the French are arseholes, but that is there thing, that is their national identity they take it out into the world. As the south of Spain can attest we export drunks and even in times of crisis we are sticking to this national identity. It makes me proud we’re being true to ourselves. How are we supposed to suffer through at least three weeks of isolation? Stuck inside homes with partners we hate and kids we have to love? So much energy has been put into avoiding our families and we find ourselves forced into their company. Without the ability to keep a steady level of intoxication it may be worth going out in public and catching the virus just to get some space. The British people can not be told to do something, the inner child comes out and they insist on the opposite even if they don’t really want it. All those poor soles who were forced to leave the cities and endure serene villages and countryside over the weekend simply because they had been told to stay indoors. At least give to poor bastards alcohol. Just imagine the damage a sober populace could do, I’m so relieved they saw sense.

The Ballad Of Johnny Longstaff

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There was a time when men were men said the romantics ignoring the fact that these were tough men through circumstance and necessity. The period of time that stretches from the beginning of the First World War to the end of the Second is one that has filled the imaginations of even the most derelict of minds. For my generation and those slightly older this is a period that we can look on and imagine our grandparents struggling to survive in. It is this connection that allows for an appreciation that others in later years will perhaps not have and it was with these thoughts that I pictured my own grandfather when watching and listening to the story of Johnny Longstaff by Teeside folk band The Young’uns at the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh. 

Johnny Longstaff was born in Stockton-On-Tees. He lived in a time when work really was scarce and a day without food common enough to be normal. He joined the marches to London 1934 as a fifteen year old demanding the opportunity to work and decided to stay. 

While in London he found himself joining various union movements and was present at the infamous Battle of Cable Street in which the original anti-fascist movement stood up against and beat Oswald Moseley’s fascist Black Shirts.

With this he heard of and met others heading out to Spain to fight Franco and his fascists. He was only seventeen and risked arrest because of the governments non-interventionist policy but signed up and headed out to Spain regardless.  

While out there he fought for the International Brigade. Civil Wars are by their nature brutal conflicts and the Spanish Civil War was certainly this. He buried friends who were killed next to him, spent days without food or water, endured the hottest and coldest of conditions and generally struggled through the horrors of war culminating in his presence at the infamous and horrific battle for Hill 481. 

He survived the war and was sent back with the rest of the International Brigade at the end of 1938. He signed up to fight Hitler in 1939 but this was denied on the grounds that he had broken the law by fighting in the Spanish War. In 1940 though he tried again and this time was allowed in. He survived the war and went on to live a rather normal life in the civil service before dying in 2000 at the age of eighty-one. 

The performance was incredibly inspiring and I left with an intense fire burning inside. I have attempted in this blog and recently in general, to try understanding the other side of the argument. It can help us understand our own position on issues as well as equip us with the tools to fight. The same must go to fascists and racists but it’s hard to understand their opinion when so deplorable. This show certain left me with the feeling that I don’t need to understand their perspective, their hate just needs destroyed. We live in a time that has seemingly forgotten the horrors of that time, of the rise of fascism and the very real threat it posed to the world. The Spanish Civil War was a fascinating fight between the fascist right and the socialist, anarchist and communist left that the Second World War could never be. While the Second war may have been one of ideologies, it was still one of Empires unlike Spain which really was a battle of ideas. These were men of a different time. It was hard and it was that that toughened them up. It is easy to romanticise the period but it does make you realise how soft we are in modern times. We mustn’t forget the past. We mustn’t forget those who fought the hatred of an ideology because while times may have changed, the more we forget the more likely we are to have to fight that ideology all over again.

Fucking Fascists

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I wrote a piece earlier about Greece and the current situation with the refugees crossing from Turkey and attacks on them by the fascists. Fascist is a term thrown around far too easily, I should know I’ve been one of those people calling everyone fascist for years, but in Greece it is genuinely a word you can use to describe people. Greece has actual fascists, everywhere does don’t get me wrong, but in Greece they are numerous, hold varying positions of power and the police are absolutely riddled with them like a disease. The piece I wrote earlier though turned into a rant because these fucking morons are arseholes and they piss my off. I’ve met them, not too often but enough to know how they think. Also Greeks in general can be quite volatile, the possibilities of what could happen in Greece worry me. They’re also just human and I love them for this, they’re genuine in their own way. I am really struggling to stop this turning into a rant again…oh fuck it I’ll just paste the first one below…

Greece appears to be fucked at the moment. Fucked doesn’t appear to be a strong enough word but I’ll use it anyway. Turkey has opened the gates to Europe using people for political gain and power, while Greece is attempting to shut them also for political gain and power. The Turks are exaggerating the numbers they’ve let through and the Greeks deny they’ve let through many at all. There have been videos online of all sorts of actions against refugees this last week. The Greek coastguard firing live rounds into the water near a boat they had previously tried to sink with a stick and turn over by ramming. When you have about seventy people on a boat designed for fifteen and only just above the waterline it is remarkable that didn’t happen. It is a shocking video and had it not been for political point scoring by the Turkish coastguard who are guilty of the same and worse, it would never have been shown. These things have been going on for the last few years in that narrow strip of water between Greece and Turkey but just away from the cameras. You then have refugees, NGOs and foreign volunteers being attacked on the beaches by roving bands of fascists, as the police look on doing nothing. The police themselves in Greece have an horrendous reputation for being indiscriminate racist morons who will only make the situation worse. New Democracy, the right-wing government in power since last summer doing all they can to attack left-wing squats, attack refugees and turn the islands into prison camps. Greece has a rich history of right-wing military dictatorships in the last hundred years and one thing they loved doing was throwing communists on prison islands to die, history repeats itself yet again. Moria camp on Lesvos has a capacity of three thousand but contains something like twelve thousand at present. I don’t blame the locals on the island for being pissed off at the national government for wanting to build more and larger (prison) camps on Lesvos, Chios, Samos and Kos but as per usual they’re going after the wrong people. The reality in Greece is that the fascists are real and they’re very much at the front of an angry populace. It is not hyperbole. Once there was Golden Dawn the far-right party but to win power New Democracy just appealed to the lighter elements of their message and then gave them free reign once they came to power. I remember when I was living there it was pretty clear that it wouldn’t take much for Greece to descend into another bloody civil war and with the right-wing violence of this last week just feels like another step in that direction. An incredibly polarised country in which they hate each other. Tourists always say about how nice and welcoming the Greeks are and it’s true, they are great at looking after guests, as well as their own families but outside of this they can be total arseholes to each other. Give them a divisive issue when they’re already struggling with no work or money and a country that is falling apart and doesn’t give a shit about them and the violence is inevitable. Who gets hurts, the innocent people once again. As the EU commends Greece for shutting the gates to Europe it ignores the abuse of innocents, of children being tear gassed, women being clubbed and boats being rammed. The Greek government has said they will stop taking asylum requests, I may be corrected here but surely there must be some kind of international law they’re breaking with that. But commend them our governments will. Commend the fascist thugs terrorising with impunity they will. Commend the brutalising of an already beaten populace they will. This has been a little bit of a unthought rant and I’m wary of doing so. But I also know people who have been threatened and attacked. This is a rant because it’s an emotive issue and it scares me and I worry about people I know in Greece. As I said a few days ago about the fascists in Spain, in Greece they have been and continue to be just as real. The Nazis were never short of collaborators, neither were the British and Americans backing the right wing in the civil war of the late forties. So nothing has changed in seventy years, it’s the same old bullshit as our governments feed the monster before distancing themselves once the job is done and letting everyone else pick up the pieces. Fuck them, that makes the Brits collaborators, the EU, everyones a collaborator. We’re all collaborating with right wing extremism because they’re doing in our name. How much do we love the EU now? Perhaps they’re not that perfect after all. Blood on everyones hands.

An Undignified Tip

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I had an interesting revelation last night in the pub. It involved tipping. Now different countries have different rules towards tips or cultural approaches shall we say. The American version probably more well known than most. The Yankee gods of capitalism have created a system in which you are guilted into paying half the waiters wage on top of the meal or drink you’ve just ordered as you know they’ll be paid nothing otherwise. In parts of Asia tips are not part of the culture, I’ll never forget the two Canadian guys throwing tips around in Burma despite it being culturally not a done thing and then wondering why they were being over charged for other things. Mediterranean cultures vary but usually you leave a few coins as you feel. In Spain during the Civil War the anarchist trade union the CNT banned the use of tips and I never fully grasped the significance behind that until last night.

The barman in this little village pub was probably in his fifties, went about his job without any fuss and certainly without flair in line arguably with the pub itself. Happy hour had finished fifteen minutes earlier but he decided anyway to give me the happy prices for the two pints, which he didn’t need to but went out of his way to do anyway. From the coins I gave him I was due fifty pence back in change but I found this issue of whether I should let him keep it as thanks for the prices a difficult one. He was a man and I was a man, but it was more that we were two blokes, by tipping him it would demean him, and there seemed to just be something unspoken that this would be an affront to his dignity. Certainly the village pub atmosphere played a part, but I may have given a woman or younger man the change in that situation. It is also possible that it was purely this guy in particular and the energy that he gave off but it allowed for an experience and understanding that was original and unique for me.

There is something about the word undignified that makes me uneasy, it seems somehow snobbish and pretencious, but there is something about being tip hungry that seems fitting for such a word. Of course anyone, including myself, who has worked in hospitality will have at some point sniffed out a tip. As I said though I don’t care much for dignity, I’ve never lacked the version that without would dehumanise and subjugate, and have never allowed pride to prevent me acting as I feel, unless I’m too proud to admit it now of course. In Republican Barcelona people were achieving self-determination breaking the bonds of a previous life without dignity. To accept tips would have been to accept your position as a second class citizens in a hierarchical society again. The village pub in northumberland is not anarchist antifascist civil war Spain and this isn’t about proud dignity either. Times have moved on from then but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn a little from the past and see how it can relate to the present; man to man et al.