It is the dead season. The dull and lifeless gray permeates us. It’s just before Christmas, new arrivals popping up daily yet the true hard drinking festivities haven’t been broached.
In the village people rush across the main plaza shouting rude remarks to friends and bustle away to work. In fact, it is the increase of the foreigners that has instrumented giving gifts for Christmas (and Reyes) for the Spaniards. You know Spain, it won’t purposefully miss a chance for a fiesta, of any nationality or type without feeling cheated or short done.
This one will be particularly rum-soaked in honour of Cuba and the bearded one’s stance against capitalism. ‘Cuba libre’ (free Cuba) will be the preferential order from the older in- crowd. Everyone was proud of his achievements concerning free medicine and sponsoring competitive athletes around the worlds’ games.
But, in reality, few visited there, other than newspaper pundits and musical groups. Most certainly no-one mentioned the atrocities committed by Fidel and pin-up boy Che Guevarra concerning the plaza de toros in Havana where blood flowed a foot high from the hundreds of businessmen and shop owners executed brutally and with a village’s vengeance.
Cubans spoke Spanish and that was good enough for Latin America and Spain to side with their struggle. The Falklands war passed the same way; mother tongue trumping and controlling any rational global thought.
Until mid-December the spontaneous parties are hard drinking and fueled out of boredom but without merited flow or direction. Charity events will knit the community together as will the renewal of old seasonal friendships. Still, it is a ‘wanting and lean season.’ The dull grey time of leafless trees and ejaculated trivia; of hollow men and still born dead poets.
People will feast their eyes upon the news, some for the first time in a year. Papers will be read in their entirety and discussions will be held concerning the dismal state of almost everything recollected. “It wasn’t that way in my youth” and tales of remembrances will gush forth spontaneously awakening old times and thoughts that haven’t been of concern ever during waking moments.
At long last suffering weary charity volunteers will be recognised and well deserved drinks finally sent their way. Their pamphlets will be read and discussions will ensue about how to improve them and their efforts. Expect a sharp and resounding rebuke if not a deserved clout around the ear. Eleven months they toil without a word of gratitude and then they suffer the thoughtless prattles of non-reflective airheads.
Nothing is acute, but everything is of concern during these lean times full of sinew, grit and lacking a bone of contention. Worry not, a glass of chilled cava will cure all. Set the world back on its right course, correct the spin, adjust the wobble.