Tat, tattooes and trollops

I ENJOY life in Spain and occasionally my enthusiasm overflows to a degree that I may give the impression that life here is totally carefree; of course it is not.

There is a flip side to the ‘Costa’, mainly enjoyed by holidaymakers and those who cater for them. What may seem odd is the fact that much of what goes on in the holiday playgrounds is out of sight to many permanent ‘foreign residents’ apart from via information gleaned from pirate satellite television, the ‘Red Tops’ and sporadic reports carried by the local ‘international’ press.

I would hazard a guess that the majority of long-time residents only take interest in the tourist attractions of Benidorm, Calpe, Torrevieja, Jávea and elsewhere when they are ‘shepherding around’ their own private holiday visitors. Even then the notion that they behave in the idiotic manner suggested by ludicrous TV programmes of the ‘Bob’s World’ kind is ridiculous.

Needless to say, not a million miles from the ático, villa or finca doorstep, exists this other world which - apart from its normal leisure attractions - often has sleazy and opportunist ‘come-ons’ from ‘al fresco’ afro hair styling scams and temporal tattooing pitches operated by pavement ‘traders’ to ‘Find the Lady’ wagering and dare I say it, blatant prostitution.

That there is a plethora of itinerant hawkers of Moroccan, Algerian and even Senegalese origin, selling everything from ‘exotic’ carpets, tablecloths and wristwatches to witchcraft charms and carved tribal masks, goes without saying.

The stuff on offer is not always what it purports to be… ethnic or artisan produce and it’s rarely a bargain, whatever the spiel. Certainly the tableware is more likely to have been manufactured in China than Africa and the same applies to the watches, sun glasses and tatty ‘bling’ jewellery. Even the polished wood 'hand-carved' witch-doctor tribal masks, giraffes, elephants and camels have a production-line look about them.

Being tattooed whilst on holiday is not a particularly new fad amongst the impressionable but in the past such extrovert and painful practices were carried out behind the closed doors of back street premises emblazoned with daft signs proclaiming 'Tattooing while you wait'. How else could you get yourself masochistically mutilated, you might muse?

I shall not describe exactly where the following occurred but in one of my earlier, youthful explorative moods – fortified of course by a bevy of beers – I decided to take a close look at a tattoo studio housed in a narrow fronted back street locale.

Having gazed at lurid examples of the art – garish green snakes with bloodied fangs, fiery dragons and entwined hearts painted on faded paper - in the grimy window, I plucked up courage and entered. “I’d like a tattoo,” I lied. I obviously didn’t look the part and the unshaven bloke in charge was not slow to suss me out. “What’s your bloody game,” he growled “You wouldn’t risk being tattooed to save yer bloody life… ain’t got the guts.”

From his accent I assumed he was a scouser but talent wise he was no stranger to his art. His sinewy body said it all. Skinny though he was, there was plenty of flesh on view and it wasn’t particularly pretty. The prices charged for ‘artistic skin graffiti’ ranged upwards from €10 for a one colour twoinch butterfly outline to €100 plus for more intricate, multicoloured ‘artistic’ defacements. This ‘temporal’ body-art business might be less agonising than its more painful, studio needle torture but I still shudder at the thought of it.

A couple of hours later I happened to pass by the ‘facility’ again and I gawped in horror. I was amazed to see a pudgy, acned teenager undergoing an intricate artwork application with an intensely rapt look of pleasure on her face. The design appeared to comprise a soaring eagle with outstretched wings, emerging from just above the flabby seat of her revealing, hanging-off, hipster ‘hot pants’.

What made the innocuous scene more bizarre was the fact that she was licking an icecream cornet and the blissful look on her face whilst the operation was in progress was incredible.

Awaiting her, looking sort of pseudo-macho and gormless at the same time, was what or who I took to be her soul mate. With his shaved-head, scabby baldness and ‘safety-pinned’ eyebrows he must have been more than well placed in the skin decoration league. He stood their flexing his minimuscles and I couldn’t help noticing that he had already had his own few daring moments of tattoo surgery.

On his forearm was an odd symbolic design which for all the world looked like number seven on a Chinese restaurant take-away menu!

A little further along the seafront was a gaggle of anthracite black, rather formidable African matrons in the most brilliantly coloured gowns of the voluminous kaftan kind.

Three were chatting whilst a fourth was busily weaving or plaiting, in tribal fashion. This is another of the fads which seems to have caught on amongst not just teenagers but more mature women who ought to have had more sense. The peculiarity, or perhaps compulsive desire to get caught up in this kinky hair fashion passion is that – from what I saw – few of the ‘braided beauties’ were in the least bit physically attractive.

Yes, they were ugly in the Jerry Springer TV style. I feel sympathy for those less fortunate in the ‘good looks’ rat-race raffle but I reckon there are better ways of improving one’s coiffure without attempting ‘permanent’ hirsute disfigurement.

Screwing up hair and tying it in tight greasy knots whilst exposing chunks of sore red scalp isn’t one of them. However, the garishly garbed mamas - one carrying a baby, papoose-fashion on her back were drumming up trade and their (clients) victims seemed to be well satisfied with the outcome.

Significantly, the back-pack nipper appeared to be an integral part of the picture. His – or her – scant locks were knotted up in tight tufts and decked with multi-coloured bandages… I mean ribbons. An obvious example of ‘on site’ advertising if ever there was one!

Of course, ridiculously braiding hair – making fair skinned girls look like albino pigmies – may not be an illegal practice and scratching graffiti patterns on pale Anglo bodies can hardly be considered heinous but the ‘con artist’ gambling games such as ‘Find the pea,’ most certainly are. These shady games are set up on street corners with easy escape routes, or alternatively on the fringes of tourist markets with strategically placed lookouts protecting them from police intrusion.

These sleazy gambling setups – based on the crafty sleight of hand shifting of a pea or pebble from one to another of a set of upturned egg cups - are rigged to give any gullible onlooker the idea that winning is easy and worth taking the plunge.

Once a few ‘marks’ have been lured into proximity, a seemingly innocent punter is seen to be having a winning run which might appear to be raking him in hundreds of euros. Of course the ‘lucky’ winner is one of the team but the ‘get something for nothing’ mug is either greedy or not wise to this part of the entrapment.

Despite warnings, holidaymakers fall into these traps with monotonous regularity and in no time flat lose their well-earned or well saved holiday pocket money. Then they became horrified when the bent game operators disappeared in a flash at the slightest hint of a uniform in the proximity. Mugs will always be mugs, so if the cap fits...

I shall wind up this chapter with a brief description of another of the not very wholesome local extramural or extra modern amenities, or do I mean facilities?

There is a ‘Garden of Eden’ facet of the Costa Blanca in which Eve features prominently and her activities are either ignored or not recognised by the foreign resident populous. I refer to the oldest profession in the world which flourishes here on the fringes of most coastal conurbations either in freelance fashion – sometimes with the assistance of bicycles - or within the confines of roadside 'whiskerias'. and 'cabaret clubs' of the ‘girlie bar’ genus.

Having only once been exposed to the lucrative business of prostitution - I was accosted (in the nicest possible way) by a lady of the night in Paris circa 1965 down a cobbled street as I was casually strolling back to my accommodation at the Hotel Persse. I had been representing my publication at a mechanical digger convention dinner. Tired and bored, when I left the ‘Moulin Rouge’ early and alone, I was so surprised by the ‘invitation’ that I took to my heels and fled in terror.

So, many years later, it came as something as a shock to me to discover that the flesh trade existed openly not too far from my home on La Costa.

Having recovered once more, my curiosity took over and I investigated. I found out that locally few of them were Spanish and quite a lot of ‘em were blokes in drag… and I’m confidently informed that the prettiest were in the latter category, particularly in and around the ‘Estrada’ girlie bars.

As a business this appears to flourish, although the bar owners have changed nationality in recent years and are now under the protection and direction of Eastern Europeans… at least this is what my research reveals.

I was also advised that few of the customers were holidaymakers or expats and that the confines of the various cabaret clubs and whiskerias were largely frequented by relaxing local businessmen who liked the entertaining and ‘simpático’ qualities of the blonde northern Europeans who were employed within.

I believe that the source of entertaining ladies of the night has now moved south east, Balkan-wise but this is probably only hearsay.

Apart from the denizens of these night-life centres, there are freelance operators who offer their services to relaxing long distance drivers, even during daylight hours.

These relatively winsome, usually young and often quite pretty, but scantily dressed paramours patrol the parking areas – where long distance juggernaut drivers often spend ‘rest and relaxation’ time – and their modus operandi is nothing if not ingenious.

The cabs of juggernauts, LWB lorries and pantechnicans are not only equipped with sleeping quarters but are notoriously difficult to access, being high off the ground. When parked they are virtually impossible to see into without standing on a ladder. The working girls find it difficult to contact their prospective customers so they moved with the times. These most enterprising girls now ride mountain bikes ‘on the job.’ They can cycle up to a parked lorry to ‘chat up’ a driver and offer their individual services without even having to get out of the saddle. Quod erat demonstrandum!