The navel of the world – before 10 am

A fourth instalment of an occasional series by Ric Polansky describing life in Mojacar in the later 60s-early 70s.

THE ancient Peruvians had a word for it in their language Quechua: Cuzco.

It meant centre of the world.

That is what the main plaza in the village of Mojacar was… the very centre and absolute bull’s-eye of the known and inhabited working world.

On the beach below, there was nothing… just watchtowers, a tiny castle, scorpions under every rock, and a few eccentric Lords and Ladies that had the temerity to live near the sea.

If you wanted projects completed, you would need carpenters, plumbers, brick layers and electricians. To find the skilled craftsman, you had to go to the village.

You had no choice.

All that needed doing was a tricky drive up the narrow, winding, recently asphalted road, double parking your car in the square, finding a shady seat at the tavern, and wait for your prey to cross the plaza.

When spotted, you would hail them to share a morning coffee and brandy and coax them to come to work for you.

You learned quickly to put them in your own car and drive them to the job.

Otherwise they might jump in their own cars, speed off into oblivion, and sometimes not be seen for days. My brother was here and was a promoter, selling land and building houses on the beach.

This did not set well with the foreign residents in the village at that time. Any activity for lucrative gain was deemed base and degrading.

Mojacar’s foreign populace in the pueblo were totally retired and had inherited or purported large incomes of their own money.

They most certainly didn’t have to work and anyone who did or even presented the slightest hint of doing so was frowned upon and to be avoided under all circumstances.

An unusual caste system therefore had been created.

Late arrives were at the bottom, and to not be talked with. Furthermore, we were ‘Yanks’.

Now I knew that. But the way it was said, you immediately knew you didn’t belong nor cherish the same God.

Some of my compatriots had just walked on the moon, but I had travelled some 7000 miles to become a 4th class citizen.

Worse yet, a different type of English was spoken that took me a long time to fathom. Learning Spanish ended up being the easier of the two languages.

Understanding British English and being understood in ‘American’ was by far the most difficult.

In the new lingo, being ‘pissed’ was not being ‘angry’ but rather being ‘drunk’. ‘Puddings’ were desserts and ‘petrol’ was gas.

When you spoke of cars, weird words like ‘boots’ and ‘bonnets’ would creep into conversation instead of trunks and hoods. It got confusing. Irritating too, but then again, you knew you lived it.

Contrary to the modern-old expression: “if you can remember the 60s — you weren’t really there”. So, on most mornings, you encountered the English returning home having a nightcap in the old Hotel Indalo.

“Good evening,” they would chirp to let me know of their nightly and proud ramblings.

Simultaneously, the natives were going to work and stopping by for their Spanish breakfast (black coffee, a cigarette and a 103 brandy). “Buen dia” was their curt greeting.

It was perfect Mojaquero, always dropping the ends of all words.

The bar radio blared at maximum decibels yet could barely be heard from the mix of Spanglish and the morning salutations.

It was the lingo of the land of Dali.

A sunrise circus atmosphere. Everyone got along famously and primarily because no one cared about anything.

There were no papers to consult. TV was the same everyday except for Sunday when there was less of it. Politics and religion were forbidden topics.

Galaxies away a major war raged in a place I never found on the map, Vietnam.

For the money spent there, the entire country could have been asphalted four feet deep and turned into the biggest landing strip on this planet.

Yet, all our shared banter was shallow and bleating.

Dislike for the English that populated the village would have been easy.

There was almost pride in being wicked and rude to the new arrivals. But luck had it that we also experienced a totally different breed of Englishman living on the beach.

Although just a handful they were of a growing stature that yielded them continuous admiration and total respect.

Capitan’s of industry, high ranking officials in the Tory party, and future stars that would be knighted and made Lord’s.

Awarded the VC for valor during WW II and a favourite that still returns periodically to see the bulls was both a medical doctor and a practicing lawyer and MP.

Within ten years of living in Mojacar I counted more than 20 MP’s that had homes on the beach in the area.

The beat went on.

Photo credit: Andres Wihlund

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