Above the Waterline

[Mac]

The small village of Triana has been cut in half by water. I arrive
from Velez-Málaga to find a throng of pedestrians and vehicles
clustered on either side of 'el arroyo', normally a small dry dip in
the road, now a raging torrent spreading in all directions. Large 4-
wheel drive vehicles are cheered as they barge through, semi-
submerged. My little hire car has no chance.

We're staying Comares, a hilltop village par excellence northeast of
Málaga. It's dominant and visible for many kilometers around,
reachable by a steep winding road which seems to go on for ever. But
not tonight. Not yet, anyway. The police arrive. Then the Proteccion
Civil. Then the Guardia Civil. Then the Bomberos., and a different
kind of Guardia. But no-one can do anything: the Bomberos get all
their gear on, and drive the fire engine through, and back again, just
to show they can. An hour later (local estimates are pretty accurate)
the torrent has subsided enough for the police to wave us all through,
so I take a run at it, bumping and sliding through the still-swollen
stream, just as all the street lights go out. This wouldn't help the
situation, I imagine, but I'm past now, so press on up the road,
strewn with mud and debris and fallen rocks, eventually to the top of
the hill, where Comares stands aloof from all this, easily shedding
water down its steep flagged streets and alleyways.

We first saw the village yesterday from even higher, way up in the
Sierra de Tejeda, where a (sort of) driveable track led up into the
forest, earth and pine scented between the rains. It took a long time
to get down and up from there to here, and a lot of electricity to
bring a large apartment in an empty hotel up to a habitable
temperature. This done, we're reluctant to leave until things settle
down. The weather forecast is relentless.

Walking to the very top of the pueblo, a woman in a dressing gown
insists I come into her house. The hallway is piled with local
produce - oranges, lemons, almonds, honey. Within 60 seconds. I'm
loaded up with a large bag of small dried figs (delicious), a block of
some confection, and an unlabelled 2 litre bottle of hooch. (I'm a bit
cautious of this at first, but it's very good - like vino de Málaga.)
She is part of the Black Economy, of course, and very good at her
job. A couple of British builders come into the bar, also members of
this hidden workforce, servicing the needs of the British-owned houses
dotting the hills around. While the official Spanish costruction
industry has all but ground to a halt, they are not short of work,
keeping their heads below the parapet.

On a larger scale, I read the other day that over €1 billion (!)
worth of Spanish €500 notes have 'disappeared'; they are the currency
of the Black Economy, and are known as 'Bin Ladens' - everyone knows
they exist, but they're never seen.

But meanwhile it's:

Agua, agua, en todas partes.

Mac