The Spanish Spotlight (LSD, #4)

4. Killing In The Name

Killing In The Name

We're on the narrow mountain road alongside the Sierra de las Nieves, a protected natural region. I have to keep one eye on the road, but with the other eye, I spot some wildlife.

"Where are we going now?"

"To Ronda, a beautiful little town. You'll like Ronda, and you'll like what we're going to do there, but don't ask me about it. It's a surprise."

"I like surprises. But I hate not knowing what's coming up. Can't you tell me?"

"That's the fun of surprises: not knowing what's coming up. I don't want to spoil the fun. It would ruin the day if you'd know what to expect. You wouldn't be aware of the beauty of each moment, but only look forward to what's next. Why don't you look around and enjoy the view? The secret of life is nothing but enjoying every minute. The surprise will arrive soon enough."

On the other side of the next corner, near the road sign «El Quinto Pino, 2km», a surprise waits for us. It's not a pleasant surprise; it's an unexpected surprise, and it looks like it will ruin the day.

"What's that?", Chelsea wonders.

I need to stay cool. Fear is a useless emotion, most of all in desperate situations. I stop the car, kill the engine, take a deep breath, and explain: "In Spain, people stop traffic and block the roads only for two reasons: to rob somebody, or to celebrate when Real Madrid won the Champions League."

"Doesn't Real Madrid have millions of fans?"

"They do."

"Just two men block the road."

"Perhaps a small, local football team won the Champions League. They must have beaten Real Madrid in the final."

"Do they play the final of the Champions League in December?"

I'm almost without answers. Almost. The FIFA and the UEFA are greedy enough to organize lots of stupid tournaments to make more money: "They play the World Championship for Clubs in December."

"The World Championship for Clubs? What's that? I've never heard of it."

"Nobody has ever heard of it. That's why only two fans are celebrating."

These two aren't Real Madrid fans. Their white shirts lack the official logo of the club, the official stripes of the brand, the official stars of the league, and all the other official tokens of all the official sponsors that make a 1-euro T-shirt worth a 70-euro price-tag. These are poor people. They're not wearing 70-euro shirts. They're wearing white undershirts because they can't afford to buy even a 1-euro T-shirt. I'm getting nervous. Poor people mean problems, most of all when those poor people want to take all our money, generously giving their poverty problem to us.

Chelsea sees no problem at all: "Why don't they let us pass? Is there a problem with the road? A flooded river? A collapsed bridge?"

"What does it look like, Chelsea? Are we facing two policemen who kindly advise us to take another route?"

"No, of course not. Policemen wear a uniform. These two don't even wear shoes."

"And all the others who wear firearms are...?"

"As you said: people who go to a football match, or shopping, or on a picnic, or they go to school, or to a barbecue with their friends..."

"This is not America, dear. This is Europe. The only ones here with firearms are bandits and policemen. These two are not wearing a uniform. Which makes them?"

While Chelsea solves this complex mathematical problem, I throw a friendly smile at the two armed bandits on the road. Correct that. It's one armed bandit and one one-armed armed bandit. I mean, both are bandits (the old saying «en tiempos de Franco, quién no roba es manco» explains that in the days of the dictator Franco, the ones with one arm didn't steal, but that luxury has disappeared since the dictator died in 1975 and democracy took over), both are armed, and both are up in arms as well, although the short, fat one with two arms only carries one arm, while the tall, lean one with one arm carries two arms, which must have cost him an arm and a leg, I mean... This becomes too complicated. I better find out their names, to avoid confusion, to become friends, have a laugh together, shake hands... Rostov! No bad jokes about hand-icapped... Rostov! Show them I speak the language, we're family, on the same side... In Spain, foreigners and local people walk arm in arm... Rostov! I mean, Spanish people welcome foreigners like Chelsea and me with open arms... Rostov!