RAISE A GLASS TO DALI

RAISE A GLASS TO DALI.

As we passed through the Spanish frontier out of France the intense heat of summer descended upon the land.  Our uncomfortable travelling attire was quickly abandoned for the coolest, bare minimum which meant that we were getting around in our swimmers most of the time.   Being the fair skinned and freckled redhead that she is Joy was burned to a crisp within two days regardless of the expensive lotions she used.  Our jolly, motoring trekabout became an exhausting and temper frayed ordeal which didn't help us at all to resemble the happy smiling faces you see in the travel brochures.  With our ladyship in need of some good old fashioned pampering I booked us into a roadside motel with a large pool and a well stocked bar.   For three days we just sat out the heatwave in the shade drinking the local brews and relaxing.  The heat subsided to a slightly less spirit draining temperature than it had been and Joy’s sunburn settled down enough so she could at least move without screaming.  From here on most of our road travel took place at night or on cloudy and overcast days to avoid the blistering sun. Christ only knows how much of that timeless, Spanish landscape we missed between destinations.   Joy was intent on checking out the larger cities like Barcelona and Madrid and I was bloody relieved to see the last of them.  I was happy just camping out in remote locations and fishing the local streams.   We spent much of our time laying around in the camper so both of us did a lot of reading.  Since my introduction to science fiction with Steve in North Adelaide I had become a full blown Sci-fi addict and I couldn’t get enough of it.  The exploration of far away and exotic worlds was a perfect compliment to our current reality and as I read away the hours under the Spanish sun my imagination ventured to previously unchartered regions of the inner cosmos. 

I sketched the Spanish landscape throughout our travels and into the rugged moonlike settings I incorporated alien entities complete with inter-planetary craft.  The illustrations I was coming out with were taking on strong surrealistic themes and it wasn’t hard to see why Salvador Dali had featured the Spanish terrain so predominantly in his paintings.  Many people in Spain will spit on the ground and shout, ... “Facista’s!” when you mention Dali’s name as they are convinced he collaborated with Franco’s regime at the peak of their corrupt reign.  I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if he sucked the devil’s penis while impregnating the virgin Mary, it was only his skill as a painter and his ongoing campaign of shameless self promotion that I was interested in.  The 'ego' as many an eastern philosophy will tell us is the greatest hindrance to true enlightenment, as it distracts the mind from the totality of creation and narrows our perspectives of the world down to the mere sensory pleasures of the self.  I just happened to discover the work of Dali at the same time as all that eastern, mystic stuff was first being incorporated into my catalogue of cosmic concepts.  I reasoned that Dali had journeyed into the deep abyss of the universal unconscious and returned to the everyday world with an almost photographic record of his expeditions.  This seemed to me like a high form of enlightenment in itself and it granted the supreme master every right to be as self agrandising as he wanted to be.  Figueras was our next stop and I could hardly contain my excitement.  Before we left Australia I spoke with a guy in the British Hotel who said that he just missed out on meeting Dali a few years earlier.  Apparently the master spoke freely to those who ventured into his museum should it suit his mood at the time.  The guy who told me the story said he was being herded out of the gallery at closing time and just before the door was shut for the evening Dali popped his head out of a man sized, Chinese porcelain jar.  He waved at the tourists as they departed then popped back down into the jar laughing.  It sounded plausible enough but you must always bear in mind that most ‘Dali Freaks’ have pretty big imagination’s of their own.  We explored the Museum for a full day and no happy, smiling Salvador Dalis popped up to bid us farewell as we were leaving the building.  The trip to Figuerus had been a worthwhile exercise over all, but it came as a bit of an annoyance that coins were required to make all of the masters animated sculptures move and more were required to get magnified perspective’s on the larger paintings.  The aura of mystery surrounding my artistic idol had been seriously depleted by the odour of tacky commercialism and it brought my Dali obsession to a standstill.  My main reason for coming to Europe was now achieved and with it’s passing all sense of purpose declined.  I found I was just blowing my cash as I went through the motions of having an overseas holiday, instead of following through with my own creative ambitions. 

 More often than I let on to Joy I felt like jumping on the nearest plane and flying back to Australia.  Most of our meals from morning to night were enjoyed in cafe’s, bars and restaurants.  Alcohol was very cheap in Spain back in the seventy’s and as was the custom we indulged.  We started drinking a lot earlier in the day than was our normal habit and even with breakfast at times.  The booze is a lot stronger than is available in Australia and if you don’t watch yourself you can end up sloshed by midday.  On one such occasion Joy and I were bogged in the camper on a sandy beach in the coastal town of Gandia.  There were some Spanish men playing chequers in a thatch roofed hut on the shore so I staggered off through the sand to get some help.  The only English speaking person among them said they were willing to assist but they wanted a bottle of anise for their troubles.  After the six of them had pushed the van back onto the dirt track I walked their empty bottle into the small township and acquired another without too much fuss.  The men insisted that we share the booze with them and they wouldn’t take no for an answer.  More high powered grog on top of our earlier refreshments had the effect of leaving us completely shitfaced and after dancing arm in arm to 'ABBA' on the radio we had to literally drag ourselves away from those mad, passionate Spaniards.  Once back in the van I dropped the keys down between the seats and it took me ages to retrieve them.  I should have taken this as a sign that I was too intoxicated to drive and jumped in the back to sleep it off, but when you are that far gone you just don’t care.  On the gravel track leading away from the beach I went straight through a T junction into a tall patch of cane.  We were still laughing like drunken fools as I reversed out of the canefield and got back on the track.  Out on the highway that cuts through Gandia I got stuck behind a fully loaded semi trailer, which was crawling up the hill so slow it was almost going backwards.  Thinking it was all clear to go I gunned the engine to overtake the truck and I was only half way past him when the VW engine started straining badly.  All of a sudden a taxi came hurtling down the hill towards us and rather than pulling into the wide and clearly marked emergency lane, the driver just threw his arms in the air and started screaming Hail Mary’s. 

Bang ! ... Jesus.

My face hit the steering wheel in a nose crushing and eye blackening crunch, then the camper went over sideways and came to a rest on the passenger side.   Joy’s upper lip was hanging agape and her leg was caught in a tangled mess of crushed metal and rubber.  Fuel was dripping dangerously close to the hot exhaust pipe, so as fast as I could I started trying to get her out.  I was tugging away at the bent metal with a tyre lever from under the seat when a Spanish motorist pulled over to lend a hand.  After the metal was cleared away we still had to pull the leg pretty hard to get it free, but Joy was so pissed and in shock it didn’t seem to bother her.  The Spanish guy gestured that we should get, ‘Senorita’ to ‘La clinica, Pronto’ and I agreed, so we set about trying to bundle her into his tiny little car.   Our good Samaritan drove at top speed in the narrow space between the traffic that had been stopped by the crash.  He was beeping the horn frantically and cursing anyone who got in his way.  We just missed some people who were getting out of their car to get a better look at the carnage, but he continued on to the clinic in record time.  Joy was admitted straight away.  She went into immediate surgery which lasted about three hours, then a nurse wheeled her stretcher into the reception area.  The nurse spoke only the most basic English but she was able to fill me in on a little of what was happening.  Joy's lip had been literally sown back on and six broken teeth were removed.  There were no fractures in the leg that had been trapped but it was badly bruised and swollen.  I was informed that she would have to stay at the clinic for at least two weeks while her injuries healed.  Joy was drugged up to the max so we could only speak briefly before the nurse wheeled her off to a ward. The doctor wanted me to be admitted to the clinic as well but I explained that I couldn’t, as I had to secure the van and the rest of our belongings.   He was sympathetic to my plight and he agreed to let me go as long as I returned every four hours for a shot of morphine.  Are you kidding Doc?  Count me in.  My two black eyes and swollen head were host to a throbbing headache and my nose was definitely broken.  As the first shot of morph saturated my bloodstream I snapped out of the post traumatic aches and pains and clicked into a new mode of physical motivation.  I must have looked like something from a Stephen King movie as I left the clinic and hit the streets of Gandia in my elastic nose patch and blood stained shirt.  While the Spanish bloke and I were pulling Joy from the wreckage I spotted my wallet poking out of what was once the glove box, so I slipped it into the back pocket of my shorts.  I had about one hundred dollars and some travellers cheques but our passports, bankbooks and everything else were in the van somewhere out on the highway. 

The most logical thing it seemed was to get back out to the scene of the smash as quick as I could and then contact the local authorities.  I was standing on a kerb trying to hail a taxi and not one of the bastards looked like he was interested in taking the fare.  I assumed the word must have gone out over the taxi radio that some tourista had smashed into one of their boys and in my blood splattered state I would have appeared the most likely candidate.  I noticed that there was a slightly Bohemian looking character sitting, drinking coffee at an outdoor cafe just across the street.  He gave a sympathetic shrug at my difficulties to which I enquired,”Do you speak any English?”.  In a very posh and proper pommy accent he replied, “I speak about eleven other languages besides old boy”.  As I was later to find out this very well spoken person was a linguist and a translator of English literature at a Spanish university.  His given title was Charles Stevenson the third and he was born of well to do British aristocracy.  Charles or Carlos as he preferred to be known lived in Spain to escape the insufferable boredom of his homeland and live out his final days in the grip of cancer.  I described my current ordeals to the man and without a moments hesitation he offered to act as my translator and guide.  I told him that I had heaps of money, but he said that he was independently wealthy and wouldn’t think of taking advantage of a distraught and vulnerable traveller. 

Carlos finished his coffee then he got me to wait at the table while he hailed a cab.  The first taxi he signalled pulled over and I jumped in the back as he gave hurried directions from the front seat.  The driver kept looking back at me suspiciously through his rear vision mirror as we motored out to the highway, but Carlos seemed to be putting him at ease with whatever was saying.  I was to find out later that it was an agreed fifty percent increase on the meter charge.  We got to the crash scene only to find the van had already been moved by the Civil guard, so we had to double back to Gandia in the hope of tracking it down.   At the local court office or ‘Juzcado’ as they are known we were informed that the van had been impounded at a local garage.  Our passports were confiscated until the matter was resolved in court and I was told through Carlos that I was not allowed to leave Spain.  After the drawn out process of proving who I was to the court official, he allowed me to take some travellers cheques that were retrieved from the wreckage.  With all of that out of the way I was ready to get back to Joy at the clinic and receive another jab in the arse.  Joy was a bit more compos-mentis than she had been on her arrival at the clinic but she could barely speak a word through her damaged mouth.  I just sat quietly with her until visiting time was over then I walked out into the hot Spanish night in search of a room.  Carlos was waiting in the reception area as he had said he would and throughout our time togeather he proved the most reliable and steadfast companion any stranded traveller could want to have around.  Being the multi-linguistic showoff he was with a healthy sense of adventure, Carlos had jumped at the chance to perform the role of translator and guide for a couple of desperate tourists. This fact helped greatly in making me feel that my ordeals were just a hurdle to pass so my own epic adventure could continue.  My lot was made easier by his concerned presence and he was of great assistance just getting through the basics of daily life.  My new acquaintance was a great bargain hunter who could sniff out the best deal on everything from hotel rooms to chilli prawns. No merchant or resteraunter could put a trick past him.  He soon got me established in a low rent but very comfortable holiday unit which overlooked the village square in the old section of Gandia.  My days revolved around the clinic and Joy’s recovery until at last more than a month after the prang she was released from hospital care.  The unit I had taken was up a long flight of stairs and it was not well suited to Joy’s needs because her leg was still very sore.  The hunt for a perfect Spanish residence was our first priority on her release from the clinic and this came sooner than either of us expected.  We were eating paella in a restaurant and enjoying a performance by some flamenco dancers when Carlos became engaged in a conversation with a middle aged couple at the next table.  He and the woman just happened to be fellow linguists.  They started conversing initially in English but were soon skipping between Spanish, French and an assortment of others I had never heard.  Friendly vibes crossed from table to table as Carlos and Rita switched between languages and displayed their multi-linguistic skills.  Before long we were all sitting at the same table drinking jugs of Sangria and getting to know each other as the dancers clicked and stamped around us.  In the final count Carlos spoke twelve languages fluently and Rita spoke fifteen.   Eric and Rita worked for a Norwegian shipping company and they were making the most of their last two days of shore leave.

As was their normal routine they did three month stretches at sea and then three on the land, either at their villa in Spain or a country retreat in Sweden.  Eric was the ships Bosun and it was Rita’s job to keep all of the hungry sailors fed.  They were lovely people and that spontaneous little gathering helped no end to lift Joy’s spirits.  Carlos, myself and Eric got into the unavoidable male bonding thing with tales of the sea and worldly adventures while Rita and Joy confided on the sidelines in hushed, womanly tones.  The following morning Joy was up bright and early to greet the day more spirited than I had seen her since before the smash.  She was banging around the unit packing up our belongings as I struggled to open my eyes against the overhead light.  On hearing of our plight the night before Rita had kindly offered Joy and I the use of their villa while she and her husband were away at sea.  We were invited to move in right away as they would be departing for Athens in the afternoon then the place would be available to us.  Still yawning and half asleep we arrived by taxi at an authentic Spanish villa that was nestled among well laden orange groves extending all the way to Valencia.  The couple were happy to see us and we were made to feel completely welcomed in their home.  The morning flew by over countless coffees and light conversation until it was time for them to leave for the airport.  They said that we could use the villa for as long as we needed and to just leave the key under the mat when we decided to go.  Fantastic human beings.  We bid them a kissy and huggy farewell from under a colourful tiled arch in the white stone courtyard then their weather beaten mercedes vanished up the dirt track in a fading cloud of dust.  Joy and I grappled for words to express our gratitude. After we had comprehended the seriousness of our situation my chance meeting with Carlos had offered the first glimmer of hope, but the villa was the thing that most helped to snap my poor, battered sweetheart out of her depression. To be granted rent free accommodation in such a picturesque setting was seen by us both as a sign that things were going to be ok. 

Joy was always the more sensible between us when it came to financial management and at the peak of my spending spree in Adelaide she had convinced me to invest in a flat to create an ongoing income.  Now the big job was to negotiate a quick sale of the property so we could afford to get the hell out of Spain. We had about seven hundred dollars worth of travellers checks left and I figured they should be able to sustain us until more money arrived from Australia and my accumulated debts were settled.  Carlos had a pretty good overview of our situation as it related to the political climate of the day.  The Spanish Dictator Franco had recently departed for the great hereafter and King Juan Carlos was appointed to rule the land.  Democracy was high on the new political agenda and the old guard were fleecing the tourists for as much as they could before it was time to relinquish power.  A clerk at the magistrates office handed Carlos a bill on my behalf for more than ten grand which was supposed to cover repairs to the damaged taxi and compensate the driver for a strained wrist.  We organised an independent evaluation through another garage in the area and found that the bodywork to the taxi should have cost less than two thousand dollars to fix.  Carlos said that the driver would probably receive a nominal cash bonus for his injuries, but the remainder would be split up between the local Judge and his cronies.  My main priority was getting Joy and myself safely back to Australia and it was no time to start crusading against the corruption of some crooked Judge and his money grabbing mates.  When Joy and I finally retrieved our belongings from the front desk of the court we found that some recently taken snapshots were missing.  Their disappearance made a little more sense when Carlos informed me that our pictures had been listed at all of the Spanish border crossings.  He said if we tried to leave the country without paying our bills we would be shot on sight.  After much pleading by Carlos at the Juzcado we were given permission to leave Gandia and travel to Madrid for the purpose of signing documents and the like.  The Australian Embassy was the medium by which I had to negotiate a quick sale of the flat and organise the transfer of funds. The Embassy Officials we had to deal with turned out to be a pack of useless, bistro loitering wankers who wouldn’t piss on a fellow countryman if he was on fire.  I had to push them every step of the way to act on our behalf and it seemed like every time I called to make important enquiries the Ambassador was out to lunch.  On one of our trips to Madrid we stopped off in Valencia to check out the sights.  It wasn’t officially permitted by the Magistrates office, but there was no way that they could really check up on us once we had left Gandia.  We were sitting in the Valencia railway station eating lunch and admiring the intricate tiled ceiling when a group of buskers entered the large open dining area and set up to play.  They were a scruffy and road weary lot who looked like desperados from a B grade spaghetti western.  Their music was a mix of Latin and African rhythms which missed not a beat and activated the long silent metronome in my soul. 

They offered an exciting escape from the pressures of our ordeal and it must have shown with each boisterous applause I gave them.  The lead singer came strutting over to our table strumming his guitar and delivered a passion filled serenade as Joy and I acted like young lovers on a trouble free, romantic fling.  I slipped the busker a thousand peseta note after the song which was received with laughter and hearty cheers from them all.  In an awkward attempt at English He said,“At last we are possible to eat again, Gracious Senor”.  The minstrals pulled up at our table and started ordering food and wine as they continued to play.  At Spain’s cheap prices I had given them enough to eat for a couple of days and they expressed their appreciation in a further out pouring of exotic song and dance.  The musicians chowed down to large bowls of fish soup that were eagerly mopped up with large chunks of unbuttered bread.  Enrico the singer said they had just arrived in Spain from Morocco and all of their money had been used up on fuel.  When we were leaving the restaurant I settled their bill along with our own and left a substantial tip for the staff. 

I would have liked to have stayed a bit longer drinking beer with the street performers and digging their music, but Joy’s leg was hurting and our train was due to arrive.  As I was about to stand up Enrico purposefully banged my knee with his own from under the table.  With his eyes he made a downward  gesture and he was tapping my thigh gently with his fingers.  I reached under the table as he seemed to be suggesting and my palm was greeted by a sensation not unlike the spongy mass of a ball of plasticine.  It was about as big as a golf ball and it eminated a sweet hashish aroma that was so strong it almost made my eyes water.  Enrico said,“We bring from Morocco in hubcaps, ... we got plenty”.  As discreetly as I could I tucked the lump of putty hash into the front of my underpants and stood up.  The other musicians remained seated but Enrico rose when we did and he carried Joy’s bag for her as we walked towards the platform.   There was a public toilet along the way into which we were promptly herded by our escort.  After making sure there was nobody in the toilets he lit a one paper joint that when fired up instantly sent out a givaway pungent odour.  Each of us took three quick, deep puffs on the joint, then it was flushed down the loo and we split.  Quick farewells were exchanged by all as we got  away from the toilets as fast as we could.  That was the first real smoke I had enjoyed since leaving Australia and Jesus it felt good.  The low grade rubbish we had bought in England wasn’t even worth a mention and I hadn’t come across any at all since we hit the continent.  In my newfound state of euphoria I had to suppress a mounting grin from externalising onto my face as we handed our tickets over at the barriers.  Joy was in much the same predicament, but for her it was worse because every time she attempted to smile her bottom lip gave way to pain.  We had to deliberately avoid each others eyes to spare her a possible split and bleeding mouth, but our true affections were exchanged in those moments.  Once on the platform and walking towards our carriage we realised that both trains on either side were filled with fresh faced young soldiers.  They must have been new recruits going off somewhere for military training and we became the focus of their collective scrutiny as we walked towards our carriage.  Noticing that many a lustful eye was glued to my girl’s arse I found it a lot to endure, so in my very stoned and charged up state I decided to make known my own presence.  They were just playful kids dressed up as soldiers and if we were going to be sitting among them for the next few hours I thought this was as good a time as any to break the ice.  I let out an unrestrained, ... ‘Koo ... eee !'  that was so loud it must have reverberated throughout the whole station.  Taking this as their cue for some train travel hi jinks the young recruits exploded on either side of the platform in joyful screams and shouts of approval.  We doubled our step and hopped into the compartment just as the engine of the train kicked over.  Once seated and getting comfortable Joy’s face suddenly changed from expressions of amusement to that of horror.  From her seat which was facing the rear of the train she spotted two armed Civil guard officers running up the platform towards our carriage.  They must have had a complaint about the smell of hash coming from the toilets and the racket of the young soldiers would have led them off in search of the culprits. 

In the time it took to walk from the terminal to the train the hash had started to melt.  The stifling heat of our compartment wasn’t helping the situation and the aroma coming from my balls was a dead giveaway.  I couldn’t reach down and do anything about it because that would have just made the smell worse, so like a man with three testicles I just had to sit it out until the moment was right to make a move.  The two guards on the platform had stopped running and were moving in slow deliberate steps as they bent low and examined the occupants of the trains.  There were a couple of stern faced officers sitting directly behind us and I was getting extremely nervous about the fact the Spanish military and the police were so closely connected. 

Joy’s quick thinking eased the tension significantly when she did something I never would have thought of.  Pulling a compact out of her bag she started powdering her nose in hurried and theatrical strokes.  Then producing a small white bottle she gave herself an abundant spray of womanly scent.  The molecules of highly aromatic hashish that had started wafting through the compartment were suddenly blown to oblivion in an overwhelming haze of 'Taboo' perfume.  Even though there were officers in the carriage the young recruits around us made loud, verbal gestures of approval. Our compartment was right at the front of the train. The civil guard officers came to a stop just outside of our window, but all I could see was their brightly polished boots.  They were joined on the platform by the well worn workboots of the engine driver which caused an indescribable ache in the pit of my guts.  I leaned back in my seat to get a better view of what was going on and I could pretty well decipher the tone of the conversation by their body language.  The officers wanted to search the train but the driver was pointing at his watch and indicating that he had to go.  ‘Praise be thy name’, and ‘Halle,  fucking, ... lujha,’ the driver got his way and returned victorious to the controls.  Then like the first lazy yawn of a waking bear in spring the train started to pull away.  I reached for Joy’s perfume bottle and blasted it down the front of my pants then got up and went in search of a toilet.  I received some pretty weird looks from the young soldiers as I moved between the carriages but it was better to have smelled like a heavily perfumed female than a hash stall in some Moroccan bazaar.  Now free to examine my badly planned stash spot I found the hash was engulfed in a clutch of pubic hairs and my groin area was soaking wet from a stinging cocktail of perfume and sweat.  I placed a handful of toilet tissues over the whole obscene mess and just yanked the ball from it’s tangled and smelly hiding spot.  I flushed most of my tobacco down the toilet and used the packet to wrap the hash in.  Then ever so quickly I stuffed the highly illegal package deep inside of my boot.  On our return journey to Gandia the soldiers must have thought  there was something strange about this tourista’ woman who kept spraying herself with such potent perfume but no-one complained because it was probably the last hint of femininity they would be smelling for some time.  As we stepped from the train at our destination the young recruits made note of our departure.  The train moved away and they were at the windows making playful gestures involving suggestions of sex and the smoking of illegal substances. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                              'Viva, ... La, ... Espana'

Once back at the villa I removed my boots and attempted to salvage our most welcomed little score. The hash blackened toilet paper was removed from around the ball and I scraped away the outer layer which had become a disgusting hairy crust formed by sweat, perfume and soggy dunny paper.  I removed the offending foreign matter with a razor blade and was left with a lump of sweet smelling hashish that weighed about half an ounce.  The original ball would have weighed in at more than an ounce including the portion I scraped away and it was very potent stuff.  The smallest amount sprinkled into a joint was enough to keep Joy and I buzzing for half a day and our little stash of 'who gives a flying fuck?' mood adjuster was just the best thing to help us cope with the pressures of being stranded in a foreign land.  Our communications with Australia dragged on from week to week with long waits between each newly signed and forwarded legal document.  Joy had to stay indoors most of the time to keep the sun from burning her lip so we made up for it in the evenings with lavish banquets and cheap booze in Gandia’s many outside cafes.  Carlos generally accompanied us and acted as our translator with any interesting locals or travelers we encountered.  The villa had three spare rooms which were gladly offered to any low budget backpackers we met who were in need of accommodation.  The place had come to us through pure chance and it seemed like the thing to do to share it around.   I love cooking for people and our little courtyard among the orange groves was the most perfect setting for late evening, candle lit meals. Of the many travelers we sheltered some played guitars and others had instruments with them like flutes, harmonica and tabla drums. Vinnie came from Argentina and he was the most accomplished musician by far.  As well as traditional tunes from his homeland he could also play Santana favourites and other popular songs of the time.  Vinnie stayed with us for about two weeks which provided a great opportunity to stretch my voice a little. Vinnies playing much like that of Donald back in England was perfectly suited to my natural vocal tones.   He could anticipate the slightest change I made in the melody and it wasn’t long before our informal jam sessions turned into composition workshops for original material.  We smoked hash and serenaded the night into morning by a flickering orangewood fire under a sea of Spanish stars. 

With each new song we came out with I was reminded that my true purpose was to sing and I was touched by an increased motivation to get back to Australia and pursue my destiny.  Carlos arrived around ten o’clock each morning on his Bultaco motor cycle and we would plan our daily activities over breakfast.  This went on for almost three months until the property in Adelaide was eventually sold.  Once the deal was formalized we had to embark on the painfully slow process of getting my bank in Australia to transfer the money to the Banco De Espana in Gandia. 

Carlos received word through the magistrates office that my damaged camper had to be moved from the motor repairer where it had been stored as it was taking up room needed for other vehicles.  I rode over to the mechanics workshop with Carlos on the back of his trailbike and we found that my van had been parked in a side lane the day before.  The few remaining possessions I had left in it such as fishing and camping gear had been pilfered in the night and the local kids had sprayed their initials in black from bumper to bumper.  Joy’s blood was smeared all over the crumpled passenger door and the overall image brought home the impact of how lucky we were to be alive.  The owner of the Garage showed little concern when I complained about what had happened to my vehicle but at least he offered to tow it to a spot he knew of where it could stay until I made other arrangements.  What arrangements?  The bloody thing had been declared contra-banned by the court which meant it was not allowed to leave the area and I wasn’t even permitted to sell it for spare parts.  I had no option but to go along with his suggestion as my only alternative was to abandon it where it stood.  Carlos let me borrow his motor bike so I could follow the tow truck and find out where the van was going to be stashed.  As the blood stained wreckage of my camper was hauled slowly through the streets of Gandia old ladies crossed themselves in fly screened doorways.  On the edge of town we followed a dirt track which came to an end in a smelly backwater swamp.  All there was to conceal the van from the highway were some mounds of busted up concrete and a small patch of cane.  The mechanic disconnected the camper from his tow truck and most begrudgingly I paid him the last of what he was owed.  He drove away at great speed which I assumed was because we were involved in an illegal act.  Not so it seemed, the slimy little maggot had set me up.  As the dust settled I saw a group of people walking towards me from behind the concrete mounds.  There was a fucking Gypsy camp in there somewhere and they knew that I was coming because they all had tools in their hands.  Not one of them spoke any English and they were actually quite jovial as they proceeded to strip the van.  There was no way I could have communicated that I was the owner of the vehicle and in any case it would have been irrelevant to this pack of happy scavengers.  As I watched my property being plundered it highlighted the powerlessness I had been subjected to for the last three months.  In that moment I was taken by a violent, yet controlled new instinct and my accumulated rage was replaced by decisive and vengeful action.  Under the folding bed in the back of the camper I had stored a tin container full of petrol. I retrieved the fuel then disconnected the portable gas bottle from the cupboard under the sink.  The Gypsies had jacked up the back wheels by this stage and they were being hastily removed.  They were all so busy attending to acts of petty theft that they didn’t notice what I was up to until it was too late.  The searing radiation of the blast let them know that the game was over quick smart .  There were Gypsies running in all directions as I jumped on the Bultaco and kicked it over.  I rode away up the track laughing and skidded to a stop at the crest of a small hill.   Belligerently I shouted, “Fuck you all” as the gas bottle blew and lifted the pop up adjustable roof about fifty feet in the air.  It came crashing back to earth narrowly missing a couple of the looters and they screamed abuse in Spanish as I made my way back to town.  It was a good job my money was due to arrive from Australia the following day because should the civil guard have discovered the burnt out remains of the van it could have made things difficult and further detained our departure.  Blowing it up was a pretty delinquent thing to do considering our situation, but it was well worth the risk for just one spectacular moment where I was in control.  I was so charged up on adrenaline by the time I got back to the villa that it took three man sized hash joints to calm me down.  The best portion of the hashball had kept us stoned for about eight weeks and we were frantically disposing of the perfume scented outer crust prior to our flight to London.  Every now and again the joint we were sharing would crackle and pop as an undetected pubic hair went up in smoke and it triggered a chummy little chuckle every time. Joy and I were up bright and early the next morning packing and preparing to leave.  The villa had been an absolute god sent and without it we would have really been struggling to make ends meet.

We were down to our last eighty bucks from some money that Joy’s parents had forwarded to her account and the way things stood we would probably have to stay with her Nan in the Cotswolds until we could raise enough cash to fly home. That was a daunting prospect indeed.  We caught a taxi into Gandia and found Carlos waiting at the Bar Piccadilly as we had arranged. After rushed coffees and plans to reconnect with Joy we jumped on the bike and rode off towards the magistrates office.  Along the way I got him to pull over near the beach so we could have a farewell smoke.  I rolled a deadly five paper scoob which was stoked with a large pinch of hash dust from the final dregs of my supply. I left Carlos with what remained because the last thing I needed was to get busted trying to leave the country holding dope.  At all of our prior meetings Carlos had negotiated on my behalf but at times I felt he got in the way of potential opportunities.  Something deep in the pit of my guts was telling me that I should clear the field and conduct my last official transaction alone.  Before the joint was finished I told Carlos that I wanted to deal with the Juscado on my own.   He was surprised by the sudden change of plans and he said that he hoped I wasn’t intending to try anything stupid.  I casually dismissed his suggestion as ridiculous but in the back of my mind the cogs of mischievous intent had shifted to high gear.  In the short time it took to smoke the joint I had contrived a scheme which might give the corrupt Spanish Judge a taste of his own medicine.  In my highly charged and adrenaline soaked state I entertained notions of grabbing the money and running which would have rivaled many a Hollywood action blockbuster.  It felt like an ingenious new strategy was just staring me in the face and if I didn’t act on it I deserved to get ripped off.  The way things stood I was the only one they were interested in as Joy’s passport had been handed back to her after the court decided she was free of blame.   As best I could imagine the skinny little clerk at the front desk would accompany me and my passport to the bank and this is where I spotted a window of opportunity.  There were a number of back alleys between the courthouse and the bank into which I might lure and restrain my young escort and by the time they found him Joy and I would be long gone.  The money grabbing magistrates would be left to lament the one that got away and we would be free of their evil, scheming clutches.  It seemed like a perfectly workable plan but it could also have proved fatal if I failed.  I told Carlos to drop me off a few doors up from the courthouse so we wouldn’t be noticed arriving together.  He did as I instructed and we gave each other a final hug goodbye.  My faithful companion scooted off into the morning traffic waving over his shoulder and almost collided with a fruit truck that was pulling out from the kerb.  The extravagantly packed joint we had smoked on the beach was causing my mind to race along faster than caution or reason could possibly allow.  Then from out of nowhere like the hooked strands of a North Queensland stinging plant a sense of crippling paranoia started to set in.   By the time I got to the courthouse I was so shaken that I abandoned all hope of pulling off any sort of dangerous scam. 

‘Imagination, ...  It  could  get  a  man  killed’.

When first we started arranging to have my funds transferred from Australia to Spain I instructed the bank to send only the ten grand I had to hand over as I was worried the Judge and his thieving colleagues might try to confiscate any additional money that arrived.  The Magistrate who I had only met once before went by the name of Senor Morragis and he was a mean eyed, obese lump of a man with an uncanny resemblance to Jabba the Hut.  Moraggis spoke in only his native tongue so a female receptionist was called in to assist.  The poor girl was not capable of much more besides, ... “Hello” so I did most of the talking as we struggled to get through the formalities.  The Judge wanted to know why Carlos was not there to translate for me and I explained with a little aeroplane display that he had flown to England the day before. 

“London, ... London, ... He go, ... Brooooooom!, ... to London, ... England, ...

You fat, ...  thieving, arsehole, ... deadshit!”

The Judge looked at me like I was a complete madman but eventually he got the drift.  He was noticeably perturbed by the absence of Carlos and I felt a twinge of satisfaction just knowing that I had made his scam just a little bit harder to get through.  At his office desk Moraggis reached down into a drawer and produced my passport.  I half expected that he might get the girl to escort me to the bank but instead he slipped the plastic folder inside of his finely tailored suit.  The fat pig stood up and walked to the door saying,“Banco, vamoose!” in a gruff and impatient tone.  In the hall on the way out he instructed two machine gunned civil guard to follow us up the street. 

I noted with a concealed grimace that this was the point at which my scheme would have been blown to oblivion due to critical details that had slipped my mind.  Once inside of the bank the foot soldiers stood at attention by the door.  Moraggis handed me my passport and I stood in line at one of the teller windows.  The Judge waddled off and pushed through some low swinging doors into the office area of the bank.   He was greeted by a man who looked like the banks Manager and I could see through the plate glass partitions that they were lighting up cigars.  Moraggis and the other bloke appeared to be conversing more about last Saturdays bullfight than anything to do with me and the attention of the guards was firmly directed towards a flotilla of passing females.  As I tapped my foot and waited in the line a daring new strategy entered my thoughts.  The way things were loaded I was an unknown commodity to the Judge.  It was quite conceivable that a young traveler like myself might lose his grip on reality while being detained in a foreign land and as a last resort he could even perform desperate and irrational acts in his efforts to get back home.  This possible scenario stuck in my brain and formed the basis of a script that I was more than capable of acting out.  The person in front of me concluded their transaction and I was summoned over by the teller.  After my details were confirmed by the clerk the business of counting and handing over large wads of cash commenced.  The interest of my armed escorts remained otherwise engaged as the money was being counted and stacked right under my nose at the little window.  When the bank attendant turned around to grab some more rubber bands I quickly scooped up one of the wads of notes.  I checked to see that the Judge and his minders weren’t looking as I slipped the cash deep inside my boot.  As I had hoped the teller didn’t bother recounting the bound stacks of money he had already done.  The whole lot was placed in a large brown envelope and after signing the necessary papers I left the window with it under my arm.  Clutching my passport in sweaty fingers I walked over and stood by the swinging doors the Judge had gone through.  In his own sweet time he concluded the little chat he was having with his buddy and then strolled over to join me.  He took my passport and placed it back in his pocket then we left the bank with the soldiers following close behind.  There was no turning back now.  I had committed to a dangerous plan which would require all of the balls and quick thinking I could summon.  In line with my new strategy I displayed great excitement at having received the money from Australia. 

Even though none of them could understand a word I was saying I verbalized my relief that we were finally leaving Spain.  “Oh!, Australia, ... bueno, ... fantastico, ... eh! Senor?  I went into a dramatized description of how my poor girlfriend had been injured in the prang and needed to be back at home with her family. The Judge and the civil guard officers looked at me like I was an absolute fliptop and that was exactly how I wanted to appear.  When we arrived back at the Judges office he returned my passport to the lower drawer of his desk and locked it with a small key.  There was a tap on the door and we were joined by a couple of middle aged men who I had never seen before.  Moraggis beckoned with a snap of his fingers that I should hand over the money to be counted.  I passed him the envelope which was promptly ripped open and wads of cash were dumped on his desk.  Moraggis and his associates started fingering through the notes like jackals at a fresh kill and as they counted the money there was an air of restrained pleasure about them.  In keeping with the mood of the moment and wanting to further expand on my 'cuckoos nest' routine, I allowed all of my homeward bound elation to come babbling forth at once.  It was only a matter of time before they realised they were short by two grand and I was sweating on the fact the bank manager hadn’t told Moraggis how much had been sent.  Then it started.  The three men were up in arms about the fact some money was missing from their haul.  Meaningless figures were fired at me in Spanish and I seized the opportunity to buckle under the pressure.  Sitting down in a chair I started shouting, “No comprehend Senor”, ... and, ... “Banco mistake Senor”,  but they persisted.  The money was recounted to make sure they hadn’t got it wrong and this bought extra time for me to embellish my 'loony tunes cabaret'.  I mumbled incoherently to myself and swayed back and forward in the chair as the second counting took place.  They finally confirmed that the error was not their own but now at least I could be certain that Moraggis had not conspired with the bank manager to divulge how much I was worth.  I started pacing up and down in the Judges office explaining as best I could that the money I had given them was all I had in the world.  In words that sounded halfway between Spanish and English I attempted to describe how my house and car had been sold in Australia to honour the debt. 

“La coache, La casa, finito Senor, ... finito”.  With exaggerated and frantic hand movements I started working into a babbling and incoherent frenzy repeating the words over and over, “No poss, ... i, ... bleee, ... Senor, ...  No poss, ... i, ... bleee!  When all attempts to communicate hit on deaf ears I lunged into one final and grandiose gesture of desperation.  As I leaned over the money dripping tears and facing the three men I hooked my fingers under the office desk and flipped it over. The money went bouncing into the air and I scrambled for the lower drawer.  I was well aware that Moraggis had locked it but my actions seemed right in line with the stressed out foreign nutcase that I was attempting to portray.  By the time the civil guard came bursting into the office I was grovelling on the floor like a squashed centipede and repeating the words, “pass, a, ... porte, ... Senor, ... por favor, ... pass, ... a, ... porte”.  There were two loaded and cocked machine guns pointing directly at my temples as I buried my head in my hands and sobbed ferociously. 

The civil guard lifted me off the floor on the Judges instructions and I was placed in a corner of the room.  The machine guns were then leveled at my stomach as I continued to weep and moan like an overgrown child.  If not death then I expected the next thing to happen was a look at the inside of a Spanish jail, but instead something extraordinary took place.  Moraggis bent down to the upturned desk and opened the drawer with his key.  He pulled the passport out and gave a conceited little smirk as he threw it at my feet.  The civil guard officers stood back and lowered their guns, then Moraggis just looked at the other Judges and shrugged.  I grovelled out of the door backwards clutching my passport and sobbing many, “por favors”.  I even carried the act so far as to attempt a kiss at the slimy mongrels hand.  The last thing I heard coming from the office as I was escorted down the hall was the Judges partners in crime scorning him for letting me go.  To this day I have no idea why he did it.  Perhaps I had earned a position in his two hard basket with my outrageous performance or he might have actually respected the level to which I was prepared to go.  Who knows? but whatever it was I got the hell out of there faster than I had run in a long time.  I gave a dazzled taxi driver the equivalent of a Spanish hundred buck note the moment I jumped in his cab and told him to pretend he was Jackie Stewart at the Grand Prix.  Joy was waiting patiently at the Bar Piccadilly when we pulled up.  The engine was left running as I raced inside and virtually dragged her out.  I didn’t even bother to stick our bags in the boot and they served as pillows on the way to the airport.  Due to a fortunate cancellation we managed to get a flight to London which departed about two hours after we pulled up.  At the baggage checkpoints and immigration I remembered what Carlos had said about my picture being posted at all of the Spanish frontiers and it caused an additional bout of the jitters that I certainly could have done without.  The photograph thing must have been bullshit because we passed through each procedure without any kind of incident.  I was so shaken and upset by the events that had transpired I was still looking over my shoulder as the plane took off for England.

Hey! there scoundrel ... I am your conscience ...

that unscratchable itch inside your brain.

                                                                         I see through all of your lies and deceptions,

                                                                                   for you and I are one and the same

 I am with you as you carve your path , through the spoils

of corruption and the common law

nothing will escape my pin sharp perceptions as you

plunder worldly riches and stash your hoard.

Who exactly do you think you are? in your well secluded

finery and castle high

are you a man of good intentions,  or the messenger of

doom in a saints disguise.

Whatever the case your end is near,  for the voice of the

people is taking form

the book of time is a noble tale and you are the target of

the common scorn.