Our Andalucian paradise

End of life traditions are a topic that is extremely personal and emotionally loaded. However, since it is a milepost we all have to pass, I wanted to share a few observations on these rituals here in southern Spain.

Regretfully or not, my husband and I have been to more funerals in the handful years we have lived in Andalucía than in the rest of our lives combined. This could be partly due to the fact that we moved here from a North American city that catered more to the working population than to new-borns and nearly deads. It could also be that we are getting on a bit ourselves…

I was born in a country that is primarily Lutheran (read agnostic/heathen), and spent most of my adult life in multicultural Canada, which in my circles meant that people were wannabe Buddhists or quasi Hindus. It was therefore quite a change to become a resident of an almost exclusively Catholic and at times very devout rural town. While funeral rites in northern climates are becoming increasingly liberal, with virtually free choice when it comes to location, entertainment, as well as what is being said and by whom, in Ronda funerals are still done much the same way as in the distant past. Things might have changed in the northern parts of the country, but here the rituals of passing are still a very tradition-bound affair.

Granted, rural Andalusian towns like ours tend to be tradition bound all around. Here, life’s progression is still measured by the celebrations of saints and virgins. In our barrio (neighbourhood), which is like a village it itself, we have donkeys and horses regularly clippety-clopping by and sheep grazing up on the hillside. Even though it is a traditional family, working class neighbourhood, a significant proportion of our neighbours are octogenarians and nonagenarians. Just crossing the local Plaza San Francisco square where the old men stand and gossip day in and day out, we are reminded of the inevitable circle of life.

We have become accustomed to hearing the sombre chime of the mourning or luto bells before a requiem mass in the 15-century church up the street. Likewise, we have started following the funeral notices tacked up above the counter at the local grocery store, cramped between farm eggs ads and pre-Christmas Iberian ham basket lotto draws. Every time an ambulance stops at the top of our dead-end street my heart starts racing, fearing the time has come for one of our ageing neighbours. Thankfully, they are still hanging in there, but we know with all probability that there will be more funeral masses ahead.

Before I continue, I want it to be clear. I am not a member of any faith and have no training in Catholicism whatsoever. My following observations are purely that - comments from an outsider inside point of view, who by mercy of friendship has been invited into the locals’ private circles in their most vulnerable and emotionally heightened times. I share these observations with outmost respect and love for our friends, their families and their lost ones. I am here as a cultural observer, that is all.

The first thing that struck me about rural Spanish funeral customs was the progression of the events. In my native Norway, a funeral might happen weeks or months after the actual death, depending on the family, the venue, the availability of musicians, as well as when a relative can manage to come back from trekking in Bhutan. It is a practical matter more than anything. Here, on the other hand, things happen very quickly. Once someone passes, within hours the body is usually transferred to one of the town’s two, always busy, Funeral Homes or Tanatorios.

I would guess that the proceeding steps traditionally happened in the privacy of people’s homes, but a few things have changed for modern day convenience.

The Tanatorio is where everything seems to happen - where family keep vigil and grieve, where respect is shown and friends come and say their last goodbyes, where the mass is held and from where the casket is brought to the final resting place. And all this usually takes only a couple of days. It might surprise some, being acquainted with the infamous Spanish mañana culture, that the process of parting is done so hurriedly. As far as I have detected and I might be poorly informed, there is no official 48-hour time constraint, which would explain the urgency at which the deceased is transferred to the final resting place. But then again, tradition is always the strongest determiner. 

While a North American Funeral Parlour might opt for a discrete non-denominational name such as ‘Eternal Rest’, the names of the Tanatorios in the Spanish south tend to have religious overtones, like our Tanatorio El Niño Jesús (The Baby Jesus Funeral Home). Approaching one of these Tanatorios, there is almost always an enclave of people outside. Naturally, this is where the smokers congregate, but it is also where the family of the deceased can escape the endless row of condoling neighbours, friends, distant relatives and unknown acquaintances.

Inside the Tanatorio, there is usually an open entrance hall and a reception area and possibly even a cafeteria. There is always a waiting room, a chapel, as well as two or three separate intestinal rooms for the families of the latest departed. In the latter rooms, the closest relations to the deceased will sit on pews facing a glassed-in chamber where the coffin sits, closed or open, depending on ones wishes.

I am not completely sure what it the actual reason for sitting for hours facing ones recently departed loved ones. From what I have observed, it only accentuates the tragedy, ripping up a yet-to-be healed wound. It seems torturous on the families, especially after what one might call an untimely death (Are there any timely ones?), when someone has died far too young. I do not believe the custom helps the family start the grieving process any sooner, rather the opposite. Maybe this tradition meant to make us face our own mortality, admit our sins and rectify our earthly ways?

As we dressed up in black to go to show our respect for our first rondeño funeral, we were surprised to note that we were the only ones to do so. At least here in town, there seems to be no tradition of sombre funeral attire. In my hometown, it would be simply unthinkable to show up to a funeral in leopard tights or any bright and gay colours, but not here. Everybody wears normal street clothing. Ones physical appearance therefore doesn’t seem to be part of the otherwise very tradition bound affair.

Some time during the first or the following day, a funeral mass will be held. This can happen in the Tanatorio itself or in one of the many churches in town. It probably depends on the family history and whether they belong to certain religious brotherhoods. In most cases, the mass appears to be done in the chapel of the Funeral Parlour, with one mass happening after another, depending on how many departed are being served that day. In the dozens of funerals we have attended, there have been very slight deviations in the requiem mass. The liturgy is always the same, except the name of the departed being swapped out, and the sermon always includes a communion. The process seems to be much the same for every passing soul. The chapel is usually full, with mourners coming and going during the sermon.  As expected, there will always be the inevitable phone ringing (ring tone: Despacito or some cheery Latino Salsa) Someone two rows behind us will fumble desperately to get their phone, not to turn it off mind you, but to answer it, telling the caller that they cannot talk because they are in an entierro. (…)

The mass proceeds at a rather hurried pace, giving a sense that there is a real urgency to get the soul into sacred ground. For someone like myself, who barely remember ‘Our Father’, it used to surprise me that everybody around me knew the mass from beginning to end. All as one mouths along with the prayers and confessions, crossing themselves, standing, kneeling and sitting at the right moments, even those who are neither regular church goes nor creyentes (believers).

After the last word is said, the family of the departed will gather behind the coffin, while the crowds file towards the alter to show their respect, make the sign of the cross while bowing to the coffin, sometimes touching it, or sending an invisible nod of compassion to the mourning family. Once all have gone past, the process of moving the coffin to the cemetery begins. Traditionally, the chapel and the graveyard would be situated side by side, which is almost the case in Ronda. While the coffin would have been carried to the cemetery, nowadays it is usually transported in a special funeral vehicle. Still, the most important part of the tradition remains. The near family, then other mourners and finally curious bystanders will follow the coffin to the cemetery in a slow walking procession, halting all traffic in their wake. In smaller villages, this will include basically the entire town. Life stops and every business close, as all the residents will walk along behind the coffin, showing their last respect to the very end. To me as an outsider, it is a particularly heart-felt tradition, which one can only hope will be kept for generations to come.

The internment into consecrated ground happens immediately afterwards. For most Catholics, certainly rondeños, this means placement into a vertical wall cubicle. In Ronda’s Cementerio de San Lorenzo, there are thousands upon thousands of these cubicles, stacked four or five layers high. Though this might give one an impression of a morbid sub-development, each grave is usually decorated and given an individual touch.

Last week, as we followed the procession of a recently parted town fellow, two workers in coveralls were waiting on a cherry-picker type lift. In a matter of minutes, while the family watched, the coffin was raised and deposited into the niche. The last thing that went in, barely fitting, was a wreath. Then, without music, words or any ceremony, the workers began to cement a lid onto the opening, completing the process by leaning a pre-made marble plaque that was to be added later. Finally, the cherry picker was lowered and the workers walked off with a silent nod, leaving the mourning family in tears. One of the ageing daughters of the departed fainted at this point, while two doctors in the crowd sprang forward to help. In fact, she got more attention than her passed-on mother, aged 94. This is Andalucía after all, where passions run high and drama or sometimes melodrama is part of every day life.

And so, from cradle to grave, we follow our rondeño friends and neighbours, celebrating their victories and mourning their losses, lighting candles for the sick and ailing, though not yet confessing our sins or crossing ourselves as we pass roadside shrines. Some things are better left to the locals.

Old doors have always fascinated me. When traveling in rural Italy, urban India, the British countryside, Antigua Guatemala or my native Norway, I have always snapped more door photos than vistas or anything else, certainly more than those of my traveling companions. When I lived in Paris, I started an additional obsession with doorknockers. However, it wasn’t until we moved to southern Spain that I realized that there was a whole new world of other door paraphernalia to explore - like doornails.

Now a doornail is not any old nail. Per definition it is a stud set into a door for strength or ornament. In other words, the nail feature may or may not have a structural reason to be. In my case, this is really irrelevant, as the doornail in itself, especially the original Andalusian hand-forged doornail, is like small piece of art. It really needs no further purpose.

When we bought our ruin and future home in Ronda a few years back, I immediately started visualizing the stunning antique door we would employ as our piece de resistance entrance. We started a province-wide search, covering antique stores and flee markets. We discovered a company in Granada’s Alpujarra region that were said to remake the traditional Arab style doors for a considerable, but seemingly fair cost judging by all the hand-carved details. A place near Marbella had a couple of these masterpieces in stock, so we went to see them. We were sadly disappointed. The style resembled what I call Late Flint Stone, due to the excessive hand chiselling. To the naked eye, the wood looked like the plastic-y hobbit houses one see in cheap adventure parks. Once again I discovered that what we say in the film industry is true - some things are good from far, but far from good.  There are no ‘bueno, bonito y barato’ (good, nice looking and cheap).

Our next step was to snap photos of doors during our walks and travels. I began collecting images of the perfect handle candidates, door wickets, keyhole embellishments and examples of antique doornails that we would love to use to ‘fortify’ our future street entrance.

We asked our neighbours where to find an old door and were told to contact Salvador Sato, an older rondeño gentleman who allegedly had a storeroom full of antique doors. His warehouse turned out to be a vast former stable on the windy road adjacent to our community garden. We had passed it numerous of times without knowing what riches were hidden behind the nondescript green garage doors.

And treasures there were. Salvador had lofty hall upon lofty hall filled with old doors. There were doors for castles, cathedrals, señorial mansions and cutting edge city dwellings. There were towering entrances worthy of a medieval fort, ancient enclosures of any type, style and state and stately twin panels to separate ones great reception halls from ones ballrooms or smoking chambers.

The place was a virtual museum, a heaven for restorers and utopia for door lovers like myself. The only thing Salvador did not have was a door to suit our rustic home, whose façade was merely 3 metres wide. Our entrance was simply too small. Salvador kindly suggested he could cut something down to size, but for one we didn’t want to ruin any of his precious doors and secondly, we didn’t know what size we would be allowed to make our front door, seeing that the original opening was made for the squat Andalu’ farm stock. Therefore, we thanked Salvador for the most interesting tour and continued our search.

Months passed and we finally got our building permit, though we still had not found our door. Using photos as reference, we got a local carpenter to build us one from scratch. While he was making the door, we kept searching for hardware. By chance, one day we passed a wood carving shop where we found about six-dozen antique doornails of two different types for sale. “We’ll take them all”, we told the bearded artisan, thinking that if one type didn’t work, we could always use the other. The nails were rusty, greasy, with paint splatters and thick globs of black metal paint, but since this was the only place in two years of continual search that we had found true antique doornails, we simply couldn’t let the chance pass by.

I spent three weeks scrubbing each of the about 80 nails with boiling vinegar. If anyone tells you that restoration is not a labour of love, they have never tried it. And I wont even start talking about the smell... Once the nails were clean, dry, and protected with a matte varnish, I gave the carpenter my drawing of the nail pattern we wanted, so that he could cut them down to size and bolt them into our new battle-ready front door.

For a long time, Salvador’s doors stayed on my mind. Finally yesterday, I wandered down to his workshop to have a chat with him and to photograph his world, so I could share this unique repository with other antique door and hardware lovers. 

Salvador told me that he had worked with doors since the early 1960’s. While his family dealt in antiques, he only wanted to restore old doors. And they are still his passion today.

His collection includes a set of 16^th century doors from Cádiz with the most amazing lion head doornails. At the time, Cádiz was more important that Madrid, hence the grand style.

There were also some 18^th century front doors from Puerto Santa María, the town where Columbus set off from on one of his expeditions.

The coastal areas usually used mahogany or cedar for their doors, while the doors from the interior, such as la Serranía de Ronda were usually made from pine or walnut.

Just like Andalusian doors have a story, so have their nails. Most Andalusian homes used to have doornails on the exterior doors, due to the extreme climate. The inner set of entrance doors had none, though they traditionally would have carvings and fine embellishments. 

The doornails on the coast and in urban areas were often made from bronze or brass, while doornails in smaller towns, like Ronda, were simple in shape and made from forged iron.

Unfortunately, the historical buildings in Ronda with antique doornails are slowly being robbed. A doornail makes a very cool souvenir…

Cordova and Antequera have their own style of doors, with artistic rod iron grid work above the door panels.

The typical Ronda entrance had massive simple round doornails, though I have seen some larger buildings in the historic town with fabulous fleur-de-lis shaped nails.

Common in our town is also an iron kick board, extending up about 2 feet from the ground, to protect the doors from mud and foul weather.

Another typical feature is the traditional door wicket, which is an older type of the modern spy-hole. This one can be seen in endless variations when walking through almost any historic town in Andalucía.

As our town used to have many skilled ironsmiths, there is a fascinating selection of keyhole frames on the old entrance doors. Some will be in the shape of a Phoenix or an eagle, others, like ours, in the shape of a lopsided heart.

Of course, there are doorknockers to die for, in fact, better than in my Paris days. I found this one, with a face of an angry little man the other day, while strolling through the old town.

Finally, we must not forget the keys. Salvador also restores these to perfection, although most homes probably will chose to have a secondary, well disguised, modern lock for additional security.

Salvador has enough work for 10 lifetimes in his warehouse, but these are the last testament to a piece of Andalusian history that is rapidly being replaced by modern home enclosures. Sadly, there are no more old doors to be found.

So, if you happen to have a mansion in need of a striking entrance piece, you might still be in luck, but you better hurry.

There are days when I realize how powerless we humans are against the forces of nature. No time is this more apparent than during a natural disaster.

An act of God as it is sometimes referred to, is dreadful for those involved, but it can also remind us of what really matters in life. After an earthquake, a hurricane or a flood, our day-to-day problems tend to vanish. Trivial matters become irrelevant. The primary concern during a catastrophe is always the safety and well being those involved. Only once the question of survival is assured can material damage even be considered. Therefore, living through a disaster puts our values into a whole new perspective.

Last week, Andalucía was under red alert. All emergency personnel were on call, even the Spanish Foreign Legion. After days of howling winds, massive rain, continuous lightning bolts and earthshattering thunder, the storm finally subsided, leaving a horrid mess in its wake.

For those of us who are spared personal losses during a disaster, there is always a certain question that is difficult to ignore. Why was I the lucky one? Seeing the destruction all around, it is clear that we can all be victims of natural disasters. Next time, it can just as well be us watching our car float away, or our home crumbling in front of our very eyes. While the first reaction of the unaffected is generally relief and gratitude, it is hard not to feel empathy for the misfortune of others. Shouldn’t it be our communal duty to assist those who have suffered where we were spared? After all, we are in the same planetary vessel, heading for the same not-so-distant final shore.

My husband and I offered to help a couple we recently met whose home had been ruined by the floods. Though we were merely a few extra hands, at least we could do something. Having never been to their house before, we followed the Google directions, while simultaneous getting instructions from the owners over the phone. The flattened trees, twisted road railings and towering mud banks along the river indicated what was to come. Our friend warned us that under no circumstances were we to take a certain bridge, which likely was on the verge of collapse. Was that the one we had just driven over? Too late, it was time to abandon our car and continue on foot. Somebody had ploughed the main access road, though any subsidiary roads were literally gone. 

Like everybody else in town we had seen online videos about the destruction around Ronda, yet these could not prepare us for the real thing - the post-disaster wasteland.

The family’s home, which is surrounded by two rivers and a creek, had been attacked from all sides. Just like the rivers had gobbled up new land, the water had also piled up huge sandbanks that had never been there before.

Passing a lonesome shoe likely brought from another home up river, we saw the top of our friends’ car sticking out of the mud. The rest was buried, symbolically, as that vehicle will never drive again. At the front of the property was also a huge pile of rubble - mattresses, beds, broken furniture and warped doors –to be taken to a dumpsite once the road have been unearthed again.

When it came to he home itself, WW1-type trenches were dug around the outer wall perimeters to create access. I could detect the vague layout of the former manicured gardens by the top of the stone fences, which like the crowns of a couple of buried trees were protruding from the mud. A faded pink flamenco dress was hanging to dry over the old well. Scattered about or all embedded in the mounds of dirt were material victims of the flood - unrecognizable clothing, a plastic mixing spoon, a broken drawer, a single hiking boot, underwear on the loose, blackened bedding and a crumpled canvas that once might have been a work of art.

Neighbours and friends had already been at the site and done the grunt work, so we were set to dig out a bathtub where we later hosed down the family’s treasured and now mud-encrusted carpets. Others helpers were scraping grime off floors or carrying more damaged furniture to the ever-growing rubble pile.

Yet, it wasn’t until I got into the home that I realized the extent of the destruction.

Wherever you are, look around the room. Imagine a murky stream suddenly bashing in through the door. The water rises far too quickly for you to do anything. What should you rescue, if you even can recall where anything is with the drama at hand? What do you bring when you have only seconds to decide?

Imagine the water now also starting flowing in through the windows. In a matter of an instant, everything below your chest-level is under water. Your books, furniture, carpets, photo albums, electronics, trinkets from travels, inherited treasures, your passport, diaries and all your important papers. Absolutely everything that is not sitting in your Cloud... Hopefully before this point, you and any other residents will have had the wherewithal to escape, only being able to bring what you can grab before running for your life. If you are lucky, you will be able to drive off before the last escape route is also flooded.  Otherwise, you must head for higher grounds and pray that the storm will stop soon.

We went back today to help scrub down whatever furniture that had survived. Divine intervention or not, there was a welcome reprieve from the dark skies, and even a spot of sun. The home-owners were seemingly calm throughout. I wondered if it was the shock of it all. Or maybe it was the fact that once you have experienced such calamities, nothing will face you?

Walking through the post disaster site, I was once again reminded of how insignificant and flighty material things are. There are times when the concept of less is truly more. At least it is clear as day that the more we have, the more we have to loose. For all the material possessions we clutter our lives and homes with and for all the things we yearn to buy and wish to own in the future, in the end it is only stuff, which can float away with the next tidal wave.

It doesn’t bode well for our communal future, as floods and other disasters will be more frequent in times to come. So, on this All Saints Day I can only hope that some of these heavenly creatures will send a bit of mercy our way…