The bells were ringing when Emily and I got into Orgiva. It was eleven fifteen as we shouldered our rucksacks and headed towards the plaza. "Hey Z,” I said, because that’s what I call Emily, “How do you feel about coffee?”
“Coffee sounds like a good idea..." Z is a bike messenger from Greenwich Village but she goes to school in Berkeley.
We ducked into the first café we saw. The Slavic woman behind the bar made cafes con leche and the bells kept ringing. I noticed the napkins were for our hostel and asked how to get there. The bartender pointed upstairs. We had good luck the whole trip.
Z and I had spent the last couple of days at a hostel in the Albaycin in Granada. The Hostel was called Terrapin Station and run by an affable, and very stoned, young American named James. The only other person staying there at the time was a young Italian named Nicolai. He slept a lot. During the day Z and I would wander the streets, getting lost and arguing about how to get back. Invariably she'd be right. It took me a couple of days to unwind. Madrid is nicknamed the "fascist tomb" and the metaphor is double edged.
Plus, my roommate Eduardo had gotten really upset with me for having loud sex. I'm not even going to talk about work. And Buffalo Bill is dead. Another stupid death. Another friend I will only talk to in dreams. It also didn’t help that throughout Granada resounded the ominous, wailing music of the Holy Week processions as hooded parishioners carried bloodied saints through the streets.
Things finally relaxed the second evening, on meeting up with Jose Luis and Pastora. Pastora has begun painting again after being preoccupied with teaching photography for the last few years. Jose Luis received great acclaim at an international puppeteer convention in Iran for a puppet show of his. He "revolutionized puppetry in Iran," with his 3 minute magnum opus. Over tea in a teteria the couple invited Z and me to stay at their place there in Granada and offered to leave us the keys for their studio in Baeza (a UN heritage site). Then they took us out to dinner at a "Japones" noodle shop. They marveled at our Yankee aplomb with the chopsticks.
In the morning Z and I took the bus down the hill from the Albaycin, breathing the cool air and observing the descent into the new city. The bus to Orgiva left at 10 and we dashed through the bus station as the P.A. announced the bus was leaving at that moment. Of course when we got to the bay it was exactly at ten but the bus hadn't even arrived yet. "Welcome to Spain," I quipped.
Z slept on my shoulder as the bus whizzed around curves atop cliffs, heedless of oncoming traffic. The mountains were beautiful and every so often the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevadas slipped into view. Near Orgiva there is a valley full of windmill generators looking very 21st century.
After coffee and stashing our packs at El Semaforo in Orgiva, we found a hippie named Jose playing the flute in the plaza. He told us how to get to Beneficio: "Go to the West, out of town, until you find this one tree with this one graffiti, and there you make autostop. Everybody going to Beneficio."
Z and I spent the rest of the day drinking beer in an abandoned lot on a pile of rocks surrounded by gnarled old olive trees facing a graffiti laden corner. We wandered some more along the edge of town. Right by the city limits towards Cigarrones was a burro standing hitched in a field, a thin blue stream of smoke curling up from the bluff below, set against a backdrop of the Alpujarra mountains. On the way back into town Z and I stopped at an old inn where we ate Roquefort, drank wine, talked about our families, and eavesdropped on the French backpackers. Back at the Semaforo we slept until dark and after a spliff at the plaza, watching two little girls race, we went to a cafe so Z could sketch and I could write.
The next morning we set off, following Jose's directions, and quickly found the "one tree with one graffiti." A low stone wall stood at the edge of the hill. There seated on the wall, surrounded by plastic bags, contentedly munching a breakfast of bread and bologna, was a thin man in an old tattered Army jacket. He saw Z and me puzzling over the map discussing whether to hitch or hike. The thin man asked "Vere are you going?" "Beneficio," I replied. "Sit," said the thin man, emphatically. "Here you make autostop." He smoked cigarettes and talked as we waited. His name was Zoltan and he was from Budapest. Zoltan was tall, skinny, and clean-shaven with cropped grey hair. Zoltan’s face was long, with a hawk nose, sharp cheeks, long jaw and clear grey eyes under bushy eyebrows. He was wearing jeans and an old army coat. He'd hitched for many years. "It is hard to make autostop here in Spain. Zey don't give a shit about you. France is good, Germany, okay, but here, zey don't give a shit about you. You get only rides from South Americans. Ze Argentinians are ze best." A car would approach, Zoltan would take a drag and stick out his thumb. The auto would zoom past in a cloud of dust and Zoltan would burst out "Fuck you, Spanish Pig! Yes, you!" and shake his fist. Finally, after Yusef, another Beneficio bound hitcher showed up, the four of us got a ride from a woman. "Bless you, lady, you're the first," said Zoltan. The woman was about forty and a potter. Her name was Isabel. She drove a tiny little Citroen. Zoltan was heading up the hill to the other town, so Yusef, Z, and I got off at the top of the hill. We walked along a dirt road at the edge of the valley. On arriving at Beneficio, the first thing is the car park. It's full of R.V.'s, vans and dodgy old clunkers. There's a tiny little internet cafe/estanco out of the back of a wood paneled lorry with a bamboo-fenced patio. The path through the lot is lined with people and dogs. We got there in the morning so everyone was washing plates or building fires or simply lounging in the sun. Out of the car park you cross a small bridge over the "Rio" Sucio. It's definitely a stream, not a river, but the sucio (dirty) part is accurate. The first thing everyone said to us after "Hello," was "Don't drink from the river."
"I wonder what came first, the name or the hippies?" asked Z after I translated the name of the river.
Inside the valley, there are three plateaus. Two are large, with the stream running through the middle. Men, women, and children live on the lower plateau. On the side of the lower plateau, the third, much smaller plateau rises from the Eastern side of the valley. After first entering the valley to the West of the stream there is a forest with a few small clearings and several homesteads. This includes two bakeries, a goat cheese maker (who also has chickens), and a yogi. Most of the settlement, however, is on the East side of the river. There is some forest on that side but much of it has been cleared. The majority of the Eastern woods is just North of the car park. Then there is garden space, the main Teepee, and a small plateau above that, which also has a cluster of buildings. North of the plateau is a more agriculture space, a physiotherapist, and about a dozen homesteads, including yurts and teepees. Up the side of the valley is a big house which has solar panels. This is the community house. There is a I-Ching on a mural on the front porch. North of that there is a cliff and a ten meter water fall, falling from the plateau above. The valley continues up the side of the mountain for kilometers and becomes national park at that point. On the higher plateau the settlements are not nearly as dense and are inhabited almost exclusively by middle-aged, single men. One of these men was a fellow named Randy. Skinny, with a only a day's stubble, and dressed in black, Z and I bumped into him on the path. He noticed Z's CBGB shirt and cracked into a wide grin. "CBGB's - I used to work there, back in the 80's," he said. "Small world."
Cooking on a fire was a smoky experience. The first night we cooked potatoes in the main teepee where everyone was very, very stoned and continually bumming joints off of each other. After that we cooked outside.
The next few days I spent wandering up the valley, gathering firewood, or just looking around. Roberto, a Peruvian friend of James' who'd stopped by Terrapin Station back in Granada, turned up there in Beneficio and we would often bump into each other.
Wednesday afternoon Z and I found Zoltan's campsite. Oskar, the young Estonian, said: "Zoltan? He's over there. He's a bastard and he steals, but he is tremendous." A young, angry, and very pretty girl with platinum bleached hair in a huge fluffy sphere was leaving his site as we arrived. Zoltan was lounging in bed, soaking up the sun, and smoking a cigarette. "Come. Sit down," He said. "Welcome to my land, vere I am king and you are my subjects."
He told us of his many travels, all over europe. "I've been to every country except Norway and Greenland. Now, I would like to go to Africa. I would like to try African women," he said with a smug smile.
"Ever been to the States?" I asked.
"No. I would like to go, but I don't go until I can smoke on ze fucking plane. If I pay for ze ticket, I should be able to smoke on ze fucking plane." He told us of a place on the Spanish coast (Almeria, I think it was): "Zere are cliffs und you look down into ze vater und it is clear und zere are zeez gigantic round rocks under ze vater und it's fucking good." His voice was filled with a tremor of passion at this recollection.
"When was the last time you were in Budapest?" I asked. "Do you miss it?"
"I vas zere last December to visit my muzer. Is vere I am from, but I feel at home all over eastern europe." Here he rattled off a long list of Slavic countries. "I go into bar und zey know my drink, yes? So I feel at home. It has changed a lot. You have no idea vat it is like to live under a Communist system."
Z and I left Beneficio on Thursday. Several kids had told us of a big electronic music festival called "El Dragon" at an Okupa'd plot of land next to the Rio Seco, called Cigarrones. The nearest village, Tablones, is tiny. Of course, it was raining when we left Beneficio. We hitched a ride from some Italians in an old VW micro camper filled with puppies, leather works, and the reek of hachis. The festival was exactly what you'd expect: lots of drunk punx, hippies, painted lorries, and a general carnival atmosphere. Everyone was crowded under big top tents when we got there but the rain let up in a matter of hours. I'm pretty apathetic about electronica. When it comes to my preferred ear-shattering noise I prefer old NY punk or Japanese grindcore. Z, being from the bay area, is more into that kind of thing. She's into Haifi (or however the fuck you spell it). I still had fun. It was very surreal, seeing the "green" powered shops with their diesel generators and giant sound systems blaring megawatts of robot noise into this beautiful river valley and the Sierra hanging in the background. At night the fog machines would come on, along with the projectors, disco lights, laser shows, and swirling spot lights, creating a garish spectacle to accompany the incredibly loud thump crash skreech of the sound systems. The moon would shine serenely as it neared fullness.
The rain left behind huge puddles of water and children would leap onto the bumpers of passing vehicles to ride through the puddles. Occasionally a toothless, shirtless, punk would zoom by on a dirt bike, spraying bystanders with filthy brown water and drawing cries of outrage. Each time he had one more person on the back, up to three. After the rain children would walk around with trays of chocolate cookies, crying out "Bonbones de Marijuana!" Everybody was always drinking booze and the tangy scent of hachis hung in the air like Cincinnati humidity.
I would estimate about eight thousand people were there. Apart from Spaniards, there were lots of Germans and English. They all drove amazing caravans. I got the best chai tea of my life from a Swiss rasta named Christian.
Z was going to stay till the end of the festival on Monday and head back to Madrid then. I had to return to work, so I headed back to Granada on Saturday. The wind in the valley was ferocious. As Z and I tried to find the bus stop we tried to cut across the river delta to the road but we got hopelessly lost in the bush. Another surreal moment: A plump, freshly dressed Brit stepped out of nowhere in a clearing to bum a cigarette, said "Thanks," and then went on his way.
Z finally steered us into town (what can I say, I'd be lost without her). After drinking a beer, the excellent Alhambra Reserva Especial 1925, while sitting on the sidewalk I left Z at the pay phone in front of the empty churchyard. I hiked up the hill to the highway and caught the bus to Granada. It was threatening to rain when I got in, and the wailing processions were still going on. I called Jose Luis and met with him. He told me that Pastora had gone to the Dragon with a bunch of friends to take photos! Jose Luis' British friend Matthew, another theater person who now does freestanding rock compositions, was also due to arrive. I took a shower while we waited for people to arrive. It was my first shower in more than a week. I had just gotten dressed as the group from the Dragon arrived. After a couple of hours of art-sharing we went out for drinks. Jose Luis, Matthew, and I discussed the Catholic church, terrorism, and politics. By 4 A.M. though, we were telling dirty jokes. The next morning Pastora and I talked about photography and I told her of my (mis)adventures back in the States. After a delicious lunch of pasta with onions, apples, and walnuts, topped with cheese, Jose Luis walked me towards the bus station. Pastora and Jose Luis were incredibly hospitable and I was really humbled. It's amazing having people like that in your crew.
After a painfully slow bus ride back to Madrid(7 hours opposed to the usual 4), I got home and crashed. I started teaching new classes this week and now I'm settling in for the long haul to July.