Sidewalk detours...

A Londoner and a Canadian were walking down the street when...
Sounds like the beginning of a joke in this week's Camino a Ítaca which looks at sidewalk blockades that often take place here on the streets of Extremadura. Click over to read the original published piece in Spanish in el HOY or read the English translation below. (PDF abajo)

The look on my companion’s face went from slightly bemused to near complete exasperation in about the same amount of time it took for the people walking behind to start bumping into us. He had just been explaining to me that he grew up in London and was living in Scotland before deciding to move his young family from the Scottish moors to the dehesas of Extremadura to teach English when our way forward was blocked by an immovable local phenomenon.

It's a circumstance that rarely occurs in the congested, fastmoving streets of cities like the British capital, but is a quotidian occurrence on the streets of Extremadura. The pedestrians in front of us had run into people they hadn’t seen in a while and in the blink of an eye, the world came to a standstill.

Our situation was dire. To our left, a rock wall rose up three meters, while to our right we were hemmed in by cars parked at an angle and then others that were double parked behind them. This barrier of vehicles blocked our only escape route, to the street, where we would have had to take our chances in the fast-moving traffic. Behind us, snapping at our heels, frustration grew as the queue quickly grew longer. Our biggest saving grace was that it wasn’t raining and we weren’t in danger of either losing an eye or being skewed from behind by inexpertly wielded umbrellas.

“That’s one thing that I can’t understand about this place. Why don’t they just move over to the side?” he said through gritted teeth as the shuffling feet behind us made our space slowly smaller. “Even in Madrid in the metro they stand to the right on escalators to let people pass, but here it’s like they become completely oblivious to the world around them when they meet up with someone.”

And he was right. No attempt was made to clear the way for those passing by. Kisses were exchanged, greetings and enquiries were made and the conversation then settled into families and the recent cold weather. The blockade of the sidewalk was complete. Neither crying children, anxious dogs nor even a bomb going off could distract them from their congenial dialogue.

However, as the Londoner became more frustrated, I found my admiration for the interlocutors in front of us grow. They weren’t fretting about where they needed to be, inflation, rising mortgages, Chinese spy balloons, COVID, the war in Ukraine or the next invented crisis. Their attention was one hundred percent focused on the conversation and the people they were talking to.

Rather than an act of selfishness, as my colleague saw it, I started to realize that it was an indicator of the level of quality of life that existed out here in this elbow of Spain. To these people nothing was more pressing at the moment than to exchange a few words with their neighbors and in the act grow the community and strengthen bonds. 

And really, was it so annoying? Would it matter if we were a minute or two late? And if it did, maybe it was us that should have left a few minutes earlier.

Whose Criteria?

Jurramacho carnival in Montanchez

In this week's Camino a Ítaca it's carnival time in the mountaintop village of Montanchez here in Extremadura. Up among your hanging Jamóns it's not your average parade though. Click over to read the original version published in Spanish in el HOY or read the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

As we passed the Puerto de las Camellas and the still Buddha-less Monte Arropez, the automatic BMW geared down for the last remaining curves. It was then that the wide savannah, more African than European, opened before us.

The early morning clouds had just burned off and on our right a committee of fifty vultures were riding the upswells that the warming sun had stirred. I put on my sunglasses and in the distance the blue line of the Sierra de San Pedro came into focus, framing the wide-angle scene looking south.

 Just past Casas de Don Antonio, to the left, our destination hove into view. Looming above the dehesa, like a precious stone set in a ring, the castle of Montanchez and its accompanying sierra rose up hundreds of meters.

I had seen a photograph somewhere. One that sparked my curiosity and was fortunate enough to know someone who was familiar with where it was taken and had been invited to see it take place in the carnival of Jurramacho in Montanchez.

“In case we want to dress up, I have come prepared,” my smiling hostess said as she held up two bags. “Carnival is different here. The idea isn’t necessarily to have the most elaborate costume. The aim is to efface yourself and become someone else, something completely anonymous.”

Not only had I heard that this fiesta was different but that it was also one of the oldest. I read that neither the Absolutism of the XVIII century, nor the Liberal Reform of the XIX century, nor the fascist dictatorship of the XX century managed to suppress this celebration. One that has survived, without pause, until today.

And today was special. The town hall had once again applied for the fiesta to be declared of regional interest by the Junta (the Autonomous community's government) and expectations were high.

It was early and the streets were still quiet when I saw my first Jurramacho. It was like a chest of old, yet clean, clothes had been hung out on a line and was walking. You couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, young or old, it was completely denatured. But the most striking aspect was the mask. Like something out of a low budget horror movie, the woolen cover from Montanchez’s star product, el jamon, had been fashioned into a macabre looking veil.

“Buenas!” shrieked the figure as it shambled by. My friend laughed, “That’s another thing. Not only is the objective to be unrecognizable, but also to change your voice and even the way you walk.”

In the late afternoon the square began to fill for the pregon which was being given by a pair of Jarramplas. I looked around and was somewhat surprised to see only about half of the people yet to arrive under the dreadful plastic tent were dressed up, underscoring that this carnival was more personal than collective.

It’s always gratifying to receive outside recognition, especially for such a long running tradition. But even if the fiesta doesn’t meet the Junta’s criteria, for a one to have withstood dictators and pandemics, there’s certainly no danger of it becoming extinct. 

¡Viva el Jurramacho!