Spain and the Sea | Part Two

If you missed part one you can read it here – Spain and the Sea | Part One

…and now to the heart of the thing dear friends.

Ah yes, culture. Finding culture in a place like this is hard let me tell you. The closest we got was when myself and my remarkably Spanish looking friend stumbled upon a tiny newsagents run by a local boy and his grandmother. She was something straight out of a Van Gogh painting. Hunched, shrivelled, and wearing a lace head scarf and a huge fisherman’s jumper, despite it being some 30 odd degrees outside. She was warm and kindly looking, someone you’d wish was your own grandmother so she could cook you the best damn tapas you ever ate.

As we entered, weaving our way around the stands of faded postcards and melting sweets, she looked up and a broad grin wrinkled up her sandy face. She shuffled over to us mumbling in Spanish, soon I realised, with some amusement, that she had mistaken my companion for a native. It had obviously been a while since she’d seen any of her fellow countrymen, outside of her family, in her little domain, she twittered away like an excited chaffinch shuffling this way and that clearly pouring out her heart to my friend like a new mother getting slightly hysterical during the first adult conversation had in months. But this mirth soon turned sour as an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. The woman was staring up at my friend obviously awaiting a reply to some question. As the silence grew longer the kindly old woman transformed before our eyes into a glazed and steely tower of disapproval. She slowly realised that she had made a terrible mistake and as my friend began stumbling over what little Spanish she knew in an attempt to ease the situation her attitude took on the demeanour of someone who had lived through wars and was calling upon the harsh resolve and fortitude she had learned during those times to instil the fear of god into us.

The terror was obvious on both mine and my companions faces, we attempted to get what we came for , using a hideous hybrid language, mixing Spanish and English in a fashion that left a bad taste in both our mouths. Whilst it was clear that the woman understood English it was also clear that she had decided long ago to never actually speak a single word of it. To her it was corrupt and she spoke to every English tourist in the same insanely fast Spanish flurry she used on us that day. Clearly this woman saw herself as the last bastion of the true locals, the last of the people who lived here before the hotels and tourists had invaded and taken over, she was keeping the torch alight and we had embarrassed her. As soon as we could, without seeming impolite and incurring the hideous wrath that was clearly bubbling just under the surface, we ran.

The encounter left us unsure of ourselves and we resolved to abandon the hunt for culture, fearing it to be of some sort of cannibalistic nature that we wouldn’t be able to deal with. But unbeknownst to us culture didn’t want to abandon us just yet.

As often happens when separated from my long time drinking buddy, rock and roll, I soon found myself craving distorted guitars and long haired wailing. Out of curiosity we asked the bar keep of a local Irish pub if there was anywhere near about where we could find any semblance of rock music. He replied that there was, in fact it was just round the corner, it mainly catered for locals but he was sure they wouldn’t be offended by us. It seems that at the moment the youth of Spain are enjoying a rock revival in the charts. Teenagers resolve to wear black band t-shirts and jeans in support of various bands despite the heat. They talk with passion about bands like Rage Against the Machine and System of a Down, whilst heading to reclaim the beach at night. Big groups of them cluster and drink on the cool sand leaving the clubs to the tourists, a situation that I and my companions much enjoyed, cheap and fun, just how we like it. We had a few nights of this and much enjoyed them, even picking up some Spanish along the way.

But back at the bar half drunk and slightly delirious from the heat, my excitement took over and soon we were trailing loudly round the back streets of Banalmadena. We soon spied the place, though the name escapes me, down a dark hidden alley. The place was no more than a concrete box, outside were about 20 heavy duty motorbikes, A few Harley’s and even a Triumph. The pavement outside vibrated to the dulcet tones of Metallica and before I could make sense of what I was seeing I was at a deeply grungy bar sipping on some local beer that tasted to me much like San Miguel and wailing along to the music.

Being drunk I didn’t realise until it was too late that my singing had attracted the attention of some rather heavily leathered and tattooed bikers. A few of them stumbled their way over and one of them introduced themselves as Hans. He had a well weathered face and it was clear that he was the leader of the group. A group who, when I looked around, I discovered were in fact the only patrons in the place besides us. Hans introduced his second and third in command with a decidedly German accent and began a heavy discussion about the merits of Metallica whilst gulping wildly on his whisky. My companion began to loose her nerve, the hangers on in the group were eyeing us with distrust and a few of the women clearly wanted to knife us. I soon discovered that these were a chapter of the Hell’s Angels, and not just part time either. They were into some heavy madness; all were carrying drugs and weapons of varying severity. One man proudly displayed a machete screaming that Birmingham was his homeland and that Ozzy was king. The highest of tact was needed if we were to leave intact. After the screaming my friend was severely spooked and began darting back and forth between the bar and toilet like a weird ferret I told her to relax, show no fear, the way to throw a biker is to get near to his bike. So I asked Hans which of the bikes outside was his? At this his face beamed and his eyes grew wide with joy. “You want to see the bike?!” he could barely contain himself. “Hell yes I want to see the bike,” I said, “I want to sit on it, get a feel for it and such.” Before I could finish my sentence I was hauled out of my seat and carried outside. When I say carried I’m talking literally. Hans had me round the waist and over one shoulder like a lumberjack carrying a screaming log. I don’t do well in the air but shouting only excited them. Hans planked me down on the back of a glossy red behemoth of a Harley. Truly it was his baby and he beamed as he posed for pictures with me on the thing, his hand venturing often to my ass. By now the gang had gotten itself into a frenzy, They were all starting up their bikes and revving them so loud it felt like the apocalypse was coming. The bar staff were clearly nervous they must have seen this kind of thing go wrong before, they rang the last orders bell and began closing the doors.

The whole gang were outside now, necking whisky and roaring away on their machines. Hans leaned over and offered me a lift to my apartment. “I’ll take you the long way round, we can tour the beach, come on, we can take a mystery tour.” At this point I was still on the bike and so was he, the thing was rumbling away beneath us waiting for the bite of the accelerator. I had already learned from one of the other members that the gang was planning a run strait down the coast and into Africa for the next day. They were staying at some woman’s apartment that they’d taken over for a few day’s. It was already getting light and I knew that if they wanted to meet up with another gang on the road which meant they would have to set off soon. I knew that if I accepted this ride not only would I be on a potentially lethal machine with a heavily drunk German/Spanish hells angel but I would probably end up in Africa, a kidnapped gang girlfriend. “Come on forget your friend, you’ll love Africa.” The gig was getting serious I made up some nonsense about hive cream and arranged at length to meet him back outside the bar in an hour with my gear and then he could take me to Africa.

At first he didn’t believe me. By this time my companion had fled in fear wailing incoherently about how I must be crazy. Eventually after calling on my entire well practiced acting ability Hans agreed to wait there for me and I made my escape. Calmly trailing back to the apartment the sun beginning to heat up the pavement, my ears strained for the slightest motorbike like noise, in case I had to duck into a bush or something. As I entered the apartment the relief flooded through my veins and I decided to stick to the English sangria culture that we knew and loved for the rest of the holiday. There’s a lot less chance of kidnap that way.