Waiting for the ‘Tourist Bus’
A Pueblo Blanco Story
by David Frost
Pueblo
Blanco is baking and dazzling-white in the midday sun. Everything
is closed except the bars. In the square men sit on walls, or
doorsteps or beer-crates, staring into space.
Occasionally
one of the men gets up to enter a bar or to stroll across the square
and sit next to someone else and exchange a few words. There is the
muted hum of conversation, and from the bars shouts and the clatter
of dominoes. Faint snatches of music drift into earshot from
somewhere in the distance.
There’s
not a woman in sight. They’re all at home preparing the
mid-afternoon meal. The smell of frying fish floats across the
square.
Vultures
and pairs of eagles circle over a nearby peak.
It all
seems so peaceful, as though nothing has happened since the Moors
left. This is the Pueblo Blanco that visitors see. Now and
then a car full of tourists enters the square, circles the fountain
with its four spouts gushing water, and retraces its route back up
the narrow winding street, without stopping.
Most
tourists don’t even get this far. They drive the fifteen kilometres
from the coast, up a twisting road that becomes narrower and more
precipitous with every bend.
Then
suddenly they negotiate one more curve, and Pueblo Blanco is
there: a jumble of blindingly-white houses hanging on the hillside,
with a ruined reddish-brown, stone church perched above. The tourists
park by the expensive restaurant and gift shop on the road which
bypasses the village. They take photos, perhaps have an overpriced
meal or drink while they look down at the view, which on a clear day
includes the Rock of Gibraltar and the mountains of North Africa.
Before
driving off to the next spot on their whistle-stop itinerary, they
buy expensive souvenirs to prove they have been to Pueblo Blanco.
But they haven’t.
Back
in the square the men stir slightly at the sound of a bus, returning
after its early-morning run down to the town on the coast. The driver
will eat, drink too much, and sleep a siesta too short to make him
sober. Then he will make his second and last round-trip of the day to
the town.
On the
way back down he will screech to a halt at a bar which leans over the
sheer drop to use the toilet and get rid of the liquid from his
midday drinking. Everyone knows the driver is a drunk, but everyone
still uses the bus, and nobody reports him.
As the
bus squeezes its way into the square, the men’s eyes focus on the
door, waiting for it to open. Old women in black clamber down, loaded
with shopping, and young women office workers, returning home for
lunch. But the men are not interested in these attractive females.
What they are hoping for is a glimpse of long-legged, blonde, Nordic
tourists in skimpy shorts.
Today
they are disappointed, and they resume their staring into space. Most
of them don’t even notice a straggler from the bus – a lone
Japanese, lugging a massive rucksack.
The
Japanese looks puzzled. He asks the driver a question. The driver
shakes his head, but the Japanese persists. So the driver turns for
corroboration to a man sitting on the steps of the village’s one
and only hotel – a modest hostal. The seated man shakes his head
and nods in agreement.
The
Japanese is very systematic. He repeats his question to the next man,
and the next, and the next. The only response is a puzzled look, or a
vacant stare or the shake of a head.
My
curiosity is aroused, so I stir from my place on the wall and
approach the Japanese. ‘Can I help?’ I ask in Spanish. When he
replies, my ears struggle to decide whether he is speaking Spanish or
Japanese, so I repeat the question in English. This time I am not
sure if it is English or Japanese.
The
Japanese wrestles his way out of his rucksack, and delves inside it,
pulling out a scrap of paper which he thrusts under my nose,
repeating his question. When I see the word written down, I realize
he is saying parador. ‘No,’ I reply, shaking my head as the
others have done, trying to tell him that there is no luxury parador
in the village, just this one simple hotel.
He
jabs his finger at the paper in frustration, and I look again at the
address under the word parador. There is no such street here, and I
tell him so, in Spanish and English. I realize he understands both,
but I still have difficulty in catching what he is saying.
I am
suddenly overwhelmed with admiration for the courage of this lone
traveller, half way round the world from his native land, who has
found his way unaided by local bus to this remote, and to him
alien-looking village. So I resolve to solve his problem, and I start
like the bus driver by requesting confirmation from the nearest
person that what I have said is true.
The
Japanese clearly does not believe me, and prods at the piece of paper
again. I follow his finger, and this time notice the name of the
province. The name of the village is correct, but he is in the wrong
province. ‘Is far?’ he asks me, when I tell him the parador he
has booked into is in another place with the same name. ‘About five
hundred kilometres,’ I reply.
I tell
him in a mixture of English and Spanish that he must get the same bus
back to the town on the coast, and from there another one to Seville.
From Seville he may get yet another bus direct, or he may have to
make a detour via Madrid. Probably he’ll have to stay the night in
Seville.
The
bus won’t go anywhere for three hours, while the driver is eating,
drinking and sleeping, so I offer a guided tour of the village. We
climb the narrow streets up to the ruined church, which was destroyed
during the Civil War, and I show him the spot where the priest was
thrown over the cliff for collaborating with Franco’s troops. This
village is still solidly Communist. Although the party has now merged
with other left-wing and green groups to form the ‘United Left,’
the local headquarters still has a sign stubbornly proclaiming
‘Communist Party.’
The
cemetery first puzzles then fascinates him. When I explain that each
sealed compartment in the wall contains someone’s remains, he asks
me: ‘You have place here?’ I shake my head, but the prospect
doesn’t horrify me, and I smile.
We
make our way back down to the square, and I offer to buy him a beer.
The terrace of a bar overlooks the square with a view of the church
we have just left, but to enter it you have to go down a narrow
passage, through an unmarked door, and climb three flights of stairs.
It is full of men watching football on television.
There
is a selection of tapas – snacks – in a refrigerated glass
display unit on the bar. In it are small fillets of marinated fish,
cubes of coagulated blood, kidneys in sherry, octopus, a salad of
potato, orange and cod, and tiny quails’ eggs. The tapa comes free
with your drink, served with a few smooth bread sticks, but you have
to ask for it. I order a glass of beer and the eggs, and my companion
does the same.
We sit
on the terrace, watching the men below sitting in the square. We have
another beer and another tapa. Soon it is time for the bus, so I pay
the bill: less than four dollars for four drinks and four snacks. The
Japanese tries to give me money, and when I refuse it says: ‘You
very kind man.’ The bus doesn’t leave from the square, so I lead
him to the stop. We exchange addresses and promise to write.
The
driver stumbles out of his house and into the bus. Soon I am waving
at the Japanese as he sits at the back of the bus waving at me. I
never see him again. I lose the piece of paper with his address, and
he doesn’t write to me. Time to go home. It’s been quite an
eventful morning for Pueblo Blanco.
