From Monday to Friday I'm busy teaching at the bilingual school in El Puerto de Santa Maria. When I'm not teaching I'm studying Spanish and practising new vocabulary and verb tenses with the two Spanish teachers I live with.
Week-ends are completely different for that's when I get out and about and mix with other foreigners. On Saturday afternoons I make my way to Rota, to hang out with the Americans who work on the Naval Base. There are also some people from Australia, Great Britain, New Zealand, and Scandinavia. They are travelling the world, just drifting around. It's a bit like meeting characters from James Michener's book, 'The Drifters', and I feel intrigued as if my nose and ears are tingling with sensory pleasures.
There's the smell of Brut after-shave, Head and Shoulders shampoo and Dial soap as well-showered faces greet guests, ready to entertain and be entertained.
I can't tell the difference in accents between the Australians and the New Zealanders, and the Americans all sound the same to me. They laugh loudly, even although most of them are not happy to be in the navy, nor in Spain. They only signed up so that they wouldn't be drafted to go to Vietnam. I love the delicious aroma of charcoal being fired up as the sailors get ready for a great barbecue of huge thick steaks. Midst grilled meat, cold beer and Mateuse wine we think only of what is happening now. We don't talk of war nor of Generalisimo Franco.
I guess we're all drifters, just passing through, getting along despite hangovers and dirt roads.
It is a pleasure to converse in English with adults, instead of children. It's thrilling to meet people from so many different places. I feel as if I've stepped inside a play or a novel and I am part of a journey that's going around and around, with no destination in mind. I'm reminded of Joni Mitchell's song, 'The Circle Game', and I wonder why it seems as if Time has slowed down, that all that matters is right now.
On the radio blaring forth from an open window some woman constantly tells anyone listening to take a 'navy shower' in order to preserve water. Her voice sounds soothing, seductive, even, as she explains that you should lather up and then turn the water off until you're ready to rinse.
"Take a navy shower..."
I've been thinking about the town of Rota. Parts of it seem more American than Spanish. There are streets where all you hear is English and where the bars are endless. Benny's Bar, The American Bar, The Sangria Shack, are just a few that the sailors frequent. Not everyone is pleased with the American influence. Some of the local people are quite vocal in their appraisal of the American presence and they discuss loudly their thoughts whilst playing games of dominoes.
"The Yanks cause trouble!"
"I certainly don't want my daughters mixing with them!"
The car rental dealers, however, are happy with the influx of American sailors, as are the landlords who rent out their flats. The bar owners are over the moon.
"The Yanks bring in lots of money!"
Since apparently the American government pays Spain tons of money for the privilege of using the Base, I guess then, those who are annoyed with the presence of the Americans should take it up with Generalisimo Franco? But, do you really think that some locals in Rota can influence a dictator? After all, in the United States people are demonstrating, protesting the war in Vietnam, yet still the war continues.
Sometimes you have to wait and let events sort themselves out, allow for the vagaries beyond our reality to settle into a peaceful routine.
It does seem surprising, but, regardless of the influx of American sailors, Rota still manages to retain its charm and authenticity.
In the evening, when the Rotenos stroll about hand in hand down to the harbour, when children squeal and dart in and out as they chase one another, you'd never know there are so many foreigners living here.
The Spanish routines of the paseo, of children being up late, of whole families sitting outside talking, of lovers gazing at the stars and the fishing boats, all continue. You can still hear the dripping of water on tiled balconies as the geraniums are watered, and you can still smell that comforting aroma of garlic and olive as it trickles up your nostrils.
Thank you for reading. Please stop by my blog at http://www.seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com