Step on it

Devaras Dehesa is an unknown Indian peasant but he was singled out of thousands of others by a journalist of “El Pais”, one of the Spanish daily broadsheets. El Pais is a serious paper that does not mess about with gossips, celebs misdemeanour or the antics of the Doherty’s of this planet. It devotes regular column inches to Juan-Carlos and Sofia, the Queen of the British Isles (and remnants of a tattered Commonwealth that has a dubious wealth not common to all its subjects), French Sarkozy who stands no nonsense but then when you are an immigrant arrivist you must be on top of it all, the state of health amongst the apes on Gibraltar and finally Zapatero.

In this order of priority.

Devaras Dehera has walked bare feet the 350 kilometres asphalted road from his village to New-Delhi. He carried a plate, a metal cup, a bar of soap, a blanket and a handful of peanuts. I hope that like Chaucer’s pilgrims he and the hundreds with him found hospitality on the way. A few nuts are a meagre picnic. We are not talking about a Harrods Christmas hamper here but sheer determination.

Deveras and the others are marching onto the government to ask the right to a modest piece of land to cultivate and feed their families. They want dignity; a feeling rarely encountered in the West where bureaucrats find it easier to hand out benefits over the counter rather than draw a few lines on a map and put names on the pieces.

At the same time as Deveras was counting his peanuts another State (Spain) was having its usual ferocious migraines. In the old days the scribble of the mayor at the bottom of a piece of paper was the ultimate law within the communal limits. When I first arrived in Spain, in 1972, the old mayor of the village had completed a bold plan he had put in action a few years before. Seeing all the villagers deserting their village and their dwellings to search for the end of the rainbow in other European countries he commandeered the whole of the ruins and offered them for free (with deeds) to anyone who would rebuild the said property and live in it within 6 months of acquisition. I was too late but still bought a 3 beds/2 baths for 3.500 Pounds Sterlings.

Things have changed. But some people do not. The headache experiences at the moment has been caused by greedy Spanish mayors who still think that they have the rights to govern as in the old days. They have not. Hence the Marbella and Costa del Sol scandals and heartbreaks. We have now agencies like the PGOU and the Medio Ambiente that regulates where and what can be built. They supersede, in power, any mayor and can wipe out any property illegally built.

Those agencies are at the moment cleaning 700kms of Spanish coastland. The balls are busy. The tears are running on the cheeks of foreigners who have trusted some promoters (whatever their nationality). Their dream home in the sun is down the drain.

Deveras and his followers are right. We all need a place to live, love, eat, wash, sleep and make a living. Legally. Step on any pirates who wave their scabbards to make you sign on the so-called dotted line. There are a lot of them.

I hope that by the time this article is published Deveras will have arrived in New Delhi. Whether he and his followers will be heard by their government is another story. That continent is not short of land but then some people breed like rabbits without any thought of what is going to happen to future generations. Step on it. This rock can only take a certain amount of bipeds who will require certain amounts of education, social services, medical attention, transportation, food and energy. And the rest.

Deveras and his companions are not begging. They do not believe in Xmas rattling boxes on street corners. They want a small holding in their native land to raise their family in respect and dignity.

The silly season is upon us again. It seems that it was only last month that I scrubbed my baking dishes and also swore that there would not be any more Xmas cards winding their way to all corners of the world. This is why we bought a few boxes of those naff cards the other day most of them with this atrocious obese father Christmas with the lurid grin on his face. But on that front help is at hand. Somebody in Brussels who probably had nothing to do but thinking idiotic schemes to warrant his fat salary, has decided that from now on any father Christmas working the season in stores, playgrounds and other sites had to be slim. The jolly and fat bearded clown will be no more because he is a bad example of obesity not to be displayed in front of children. We shall enter the era of the size00 of the familiar figure so dear to youngsters. I can’t quite see a David Beckham alike being a massive success sitting in his grotto at the Corte Ingles or Selfridges, although it might make the reindeer’s job slightly easier.

Another bright spark from the flat country has produced a report that is certain to curb the sales of Christmas lingerie, an all time favourite. He discovered that breast fed babies develop a higher IQ (intelligence quotient) than babies fed on powdered or cow’s milk. Now how is that for a Christmas present? I can see a generation of infants forever clinging to the proverbials and the mothers hoping that another Einstein is on the way. Personally I know a woman who stuck to breast feeding her children until they were well past two years old. They are now approaching middle age and have a just average IQ. They are vegetarians which is understandable. If you have been stuck to a 46DD for that long it must be revolting to tuck into a breast of chicken with peas and carrots.

One Christmas present I would like from Malaga town is to complete the refit of the harbour. There is only one entrance. The rest is a mess of temporary fences where no cars are allowed according to the police officer at the gate. The 1960 built replica of the Bounty was in harbour and we were determined to visit her. It would have meant a very long walk from the public parking to her moorings. We messed around for a while and decided to take a chance. Back to the police officer we said that we were buying ferry tickets from Acciona. He waved us in. Not to be recommended. We had coffee at the only bar in the harbour and drove to the Bounty. Marlon Brando was not available but the young people working on her were full of information. It is a beautiful ship and an exact copy except for the fact that her lower deck is one third higher than the original because they had to accommodate the cameras and lighting equipment during the filming. She sometimes takes paying passengers which helps for her upkeep. The Bounty is privately owned and cost his owner a cool million dollars a year to maintain. It was a great shame that her stay in Malaga was not better advertised. It would have given a lot of youngsters greater pleasure to explore her than climbing on the knees of a fat or even slim father Xmas.

Getting out we were stopped by the same police officer. He had not been fooled and gave us a right old dressing down. I asked Chris not to linger. Some of us are not as courageous as Deveras. I had no wish to spend the day in a Spanish cop shop. I whispered: “Smile... and step on it”...

JOCELYNE