Hello, hello, hello…

This week we feature an extract from Malcolm's book 'Mañana and Still No Problema'

ASIDE from a series of visits to the Guardia Civil headquarters in Altea (over twentyfive years ago!) to report burglaries at my home in La Olla, my confrontations with the constabulary have fortunately been few and infrequent. In fact, most of them have been brought about by traffic infringements caused by my own stupidity or lack of understanding of local law.

It would appear that vehicles with Spanish matriculation can, without impunity, ignore red traffic lights whilst the driver of a foreign registered car is deep in the mire if he slips through on amber. And that’s what I did! Fair do’s, I should have known better and I grabbed an instant fine from a lurking ‘trafico’ for being a bit late for the green light near Villajoyosa.

I was similarly fined – this time driving a Spanish registered Citroën - just after dark with my head lights full on after being ‘blinded’ by an oncoming truck flashing more lights than a fairground. There was little other traffic on the road but I was still pulled in and found myself forking out on the spot.

Ironically and in total contrast, on the same stretch of road some time later, I was ‘waved down’ at dusk as the sky was just beginning to darken. At the time there was a very vigorous ‘drink-driving campaign’ in progress so my instant mental response was “Oh dear, this has got to be a bloody random test.” I was not inebriated, quite compos mentis in fact, but I was returning from a lunch where wine had been flowing rather copiously. Surprisingly the rather stern faced young Guardia officer did not ask me to get out of the car. He asked me if I realised that I was driving without lights. I replied that I did not think it was dark enough for lights but he indicated in no uncertain manner that he considered IT WAS! Fearing the worst, I apologised profusely and made a point of ‘switching on’. He smiled, did not demand sight of my papers, stepped back and without further ado waved me back to the road and saluted as I drove off. With a sigh of relief, I joined the traffic flow once more realising that Spanish lawmen were totally unpredictable… but on this occasion I felt they were humane and rather special!

On a few other occasions I have encountered Spanish ‘bobbies’ who also exhibited their humane or – probably nearer to the point – human qualities. For many years I drove an English registered car to and from Spain with regularity. When I decided to settle on ‘La Costa’ it seemed a shame to get rid of it so I bought a Spanish ‘banger’ and became a twocar man. At that time, non-residents were only allowed to stay in the country for three months whilst diversely a foreign registered car was allowed to remain for six months. Bearing this in mind, I alternated the use of my cars. I took the ‘right hand drive’ off the road from July until December and exclusively used the Citroën, swapping back in the New Year. This worked like a charm for over fifteen years but then I got gently copped. Although my ageing Mercedes was still a month from its ‘six months’ expiry date I was pulled over by a motor bike mounted traffic Guardia.

He made no bones about why he pulled me over. In perfect English he said to me: “Mr. Smith this car has been in Spain over the limited time.” I blustered and said that it had still another three weeks of its allowed period left. Stern faced, he retorted: “Mr. Smith, we are not stupid, we know how many years you have been driving this car here and how you have bent the rules.” Chastised, I told him I was returning to the UK in a couple of weeks and a shadow of a smile crossed his face before he replied… “Señor Smith, I will give you some good advice; don’t wait that long.” With that he stepped aside, waved me on and saluted. The Guardia are great at saluting miscreants, are they not? Needless to say, I heeded the warning and set off in the direction of La Junquera and the French border at the end of the week!

However, whimsically the two police encounters I still look back on with a smile were perfect examples of the ‘human’ side of roadside law enforcement. One was Guardia inspired, the other was brought about by the outrageous behaviour of a municipal bobby. My Citroën was being serviced so I borrowed a friend’s spanking new Seat. Jim Pearson and I had become ‘amigos’ despite our different backgrounds; he was a onetime ship’s captain and harbour-master in Kuwait; I had hustled and scribbled a living in the newspaper game in England. What we had in common was the fact that we both drank and socialised in Altea’s El Tunel bar.

The Seat was quite nippy but I was not familiar with its controls apart from the wheel, gear stick and pedals. However, I felt competent enough to manage. I was taking a couple of visiting friends out to Tarbena to see the mountain sights and was heading north along the N-332 highway towards Calpe. As I drove into the ‘Mascarat’ tunnel, I fiddled around but couldn’t find the lights switch. My luck was out. At the far end of the tunnel was a police trap and I was waved down. After the mandatory checking of papers, I was told that I had broken the law by driving through the tunnel without lights. I admitted to the heinous crime but in mitigation said I did not know where the lights switch was. The officer leant into the car and disdainfully showed it to me… very obviously located adjacent to the steering column. My stupidity was sufficient to land me with a fine. I had to stump up 1,500 pesetas on the spot. The negotiations had all been carried out in Spanish – mine pidgin style – but before I drove away, the bobby, with a huge grin on his face said in excellent English: “1,500 pesetas is not a lot señor…it’s no more than a couple of rounds of drinks.”

I was gob-smacked, but with the grin still plastered across his face, he waved me on and, of course, saluted.

Around about the same, time parking restrictions came into force in Alfaz del Pi. It was a place I frequented as my recently acquired Spanish property was barely ten minutes’ drive away. The locals considered that the ‘new’ no parking arrangements were a joke. Nobody seemed to take notice of the signs, so I thought I could do the same. Having parked my car in a quiet side street, I was incensed when I returned to discover a parking ticket on my windscreen. My first inclination was to screw it up and throw it away but as it was for a mere 600 pesetas minus a discount for instant payment, I decided to be a good boy.

Money in my mitt, I hiked around to the Ayuntamiento where the local police had an office. I was out of luck! The office was closed and a lady cleaner who was swabbing down the hallway told me that ‘el municipal’ was doing his rounds. “Where am I likely to find him,” I asked. She pointed across the road to the Cafe Royale and that’s where he was. The ageing, grey haired, rather corpulent bobby was leaning on the bar chomping a bocadillo and slurping a Mahou. I approached him, brandished the ticket and handed him 400 pesetas. He instantly pocketed the cash, grabbing the ticket, tore it into pieces and chucked it on the floor. Then he turned to me and growled, ¿Te apetece una copa? (do you fancy a drink?). Lost for words, I nodded a yes and downed a beer with him before I left.

From time to time I have encountered members of the Guardia Civil during their leisure time and usually found them pleasant company but still unpredictable. I discovered that some of these ‘guardians of the law’ who could not speak English when on duty were fluent in the language socially. There must be a reason for this attitude but I’m saying nowt!

On the only occasion I witnessed an officer being stroppy ‘off duty’ I was enjoying myself at an impromptu party in a Galician restaurant. Having eaten well in Meson Gallego, a group of us were dancing to the music of Paco Francisco and his ‘Magic’ organ. Paco was a clown; he was bald but regularly wore an ill-fitting jet black, Beatles style toupee which tended to come awry as the night progressed. He also liked to play a Kojak role, sucking a boiled sweet lollipop as he played. And his playing was something special. He vamped to pre-recorded tapes which were integral to his hightech Yamaha. He let the cat out of the bag one night though when he left his organ to make a ‘call of nature’ and forgot to switch off the machine. It continued to churn out music untended until he returned.

However, on the occasion of the party, a couple of uniformed policemen on a leisure break were firmly ensconced at the bar tucking into callos and ‘copas.’ The party was swinging and unfortunately one of the dancers accidentally tripped and bumped into one of the bobbies who was not amused. He turned and snarled at the bloke who apologised but it seems this was not enough and the officer left his seat in menacing mood. Jesus, the restaurant owner, intervened in no uncertain fashion. He beckoned from behind the bar and quietly said a few words to the angry bobby who immediately returned to his stool and finished his drink. Exactly what Jesus said, I know not but five minutes later the off duty boys in olive green left.

On the other side of the coin, on the occasion of a visit to the Guardia HQ in Villajoyosa I found myself in quite a different situation. Ostensibly going into the office to report on some local activity in Paraiso where I lived, I addressed the charge officer in my ‘well practiced’ but badly accented Spanish only to be halted mid-sentence. It appeared that it was necessary to have an interpreter as he could not understand me. I discovered that they had recently appointed such a person – university educated and fluent in English – and were rather proud of the fact.

However, she was not on the premises and had to be sent for. In the meantime, I was requested to take a seat in the foyer and wait. The Villajoyosa Guardia office is located beneath a huge barracks like block of apartments. Whilst I was there some sort of celebration was being planned and folk were bustling around making preparations.

After a few minutes, the desk officer came over to me – the guy who needed an interpreter – and said in English “As you have a while to wait you might as well give a hand here.” I spent the next half hour shifting furniture and hanging decorations on the walls for a bunch of people I had never met in my life.

Naturally I was rewarded with ‘una cerveza y un bocadillo’. When the rather attractive looking interpreter finally arrived we had a laugh about the bizarre situation and she said: “The Guardia Civil here are very nice; they know I have only just left ‘universidad’ and haven’t got a regular job so they send for me to help out."

In Alfaz de Pi I met a high ranking police officer in very different circumstances.

My artist friend, Pedro Delso was a workaholic but when he was not working he loved to party. He had converted a small hillside crevasse on his estate into a ‘dining cave’ cum bodega and liked to entertain in it rather than indoors. On this occasion we were to tuck into one of his experimental specialities, baked lamb Peruvian style. The ‘pierna’ was wrapped in banana leaves, tossed onto hot coals in a pit then covered with soil.

About a dozen of us were invited; a local hotelier, a surgeon from Valencia, Brian Sumner the Costa Blanca News editor, myself and the Benidorm chief of police. All with wives and partners of course. The lamb experience was a disaster; the banana leaves burst open and the meat became charred but we made do with barbecued ribs and sausages rapidly produced by Signa, Pedro’s wife.

Wine had flowed copiously so it wasn’t long before we were being ordered into ‘fancy dress’ by Pedro who by this time was already dressed in traditional Norwegian costume. Out came his ‘carnival effects’ trunk and we all got tarted up, whether we liked it or not. I was attired as a cave man in a leopard skin leotard, the hotel bloke became a Moor, and the police chief was bedecked as Wild West ‘Sitting Bull’ and sported a huge red Indian head dress. His wife was transformed into a Rhineland maiden whilst wearing a horned Viking helmet. This proved to me that even high ranking Spanish bobbies can let their hair down! I’m not sure what the moral of this is but it reminded me of this anecdote. An American movie star visiting London was once reputed to have said: “I think your policemen are wonderful.” I now have similar opinions of their counterparts in Spain!