Interior Colonialism

It's election season here in Spain, with most of the country's autonomous regions, cities and town up for grabs. The region newspaper I contribute to asked me for my view on the upcoming elections. Rather than examine the promises that are never kept, I looked at the hegemony of the party system here in Spain and the lack of accountability this creates. Click over to read the original version in Spanish in el HOY or read the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

I’m from a former colony in what has been called the new world. It’s a sparsely populated land of vast resources and immense natural wealth. Its raw materials were first harvested by Europeans on behalf of the French and then were handed over to the English. In exchange, Canada got a foreign monarchy that it still has not fully emancipated from.

And while the recently crowned Carlos is still nominally the head of state of this G8 country, the British no longer reap all its natural wealth for their sole benefit. Now, our outsized neighbors to the south have picked up where the English left off. Now the Americans happily extract Canada’s resources and then sell them back with value added once they have been transformed. Thus shifting the country’s natural wealth from its place of birth elsewhere.

It's an age-old colonialist tale of pillage and plunder. One that should sound very familiar to someone from Extremadura. For this land too has been drained, literally in the case of the reservoirs, by external powers in a process of interior colonialization for centuries. 

In the forty years since this Autonomous region was created, it has been controlled by external parties and its destiny has never fully been its own. Two political parties have been in control that ostensibly have a base here, but whose real power base emanates from Madrid. Extremadura has never come of age politically or economically due to this continued reliance on decisions made in offices in Ferraz or, briefly, Genova.

As the elections approach, it’s long past time to move out from mom and dad’s house and emancipate. To be beholden to no one other than the inhabitants of the region. To act, not according to what is good for a national party, but for the good of the people who live and raise their families here. To be represented by independent voices, free from backroom deals and tradeoffs made elsewhere.

Colonies adapt and then evolve and there comes a time when outside help is no longer wanted or even necessary. Extremadura needs to trust in itself.

Trapped... in a List

In this week's Camino de Ítaca a different look at the upcoming regional and municipal elections here in Spain. A long term emmigrant's perspective on voting here in Extremadura. Click over to read the original article publishhed in el HOY in Spanish or read the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

Democracy exists somewhat as a textbook word for me. It’s something that I have learned about, somewhat understand and strongly believe in. But it’s also something I have rarely been able to actually take part in. That’s because for most of my adult life I’ve lived abroad, politically exiled by both countries I hold passports to.  

Both Canada, the country of my birth, and the United Kingdom, the land of my father’s birth, are suspicious of long-term emigrants. In a particularly petty, vindictive move, both countries revoke their citizens’ right to vote after just five years living abroad. Over the years my chances to have my say politically have mostly been in print rather than the ballot box.  

Here in Spain my voting options have recently changed. While I can vote in the municipal elections, thanks to a bilateral agreement between Spain and the UK, regional and, somewhat more understandably, national elections remain out of my reach. I used to have a choice in the European elections, but that was before the UK lost its mind and communally committed harikari with Brexit.  

The right to choose is vital in any state that holds any pretentions of being modern and progressive. The dark decades of not being able to express any choice are thankfully long behind Spain and it is now one of the freest countries in the world. But even for those, unlike me, who can vote here, how much say do you really have in choosing who will represent your interests? Can you put a name and face to the individual who will be defending what’s best for you?

The answer is…complicated.

That’s because Spain, along with a dubious list of countries that include the likes of Algeria, Burkina Faso, Togo and Turkey, has a closed list voting system. One in which voters are free to vote for political parties as a whole, but in which they have no influence on the party-supplied order in which party candidates are elected. This means that the order of candidates elected is fixed by the party itself and voters are not able to express a preference for a particular candidate. 

The candidates positioned highest on this list have a greater chance in obtaining a seat in the parliament while the candidates positioned very low on the closed list will not. This creates a sycophantic atmosphere within the party where the candidates’ loyalty lies more with the party than with the people. A party whose broader interests may be in conflict with those of the electorate.

The ongoing saqueo byIberdrola of our reservoirs or the extremely unpopular proposed lithium mine a mere 2kms away from the UNESCO core of Caceres and atop its aquifer are clear examples of these conflicting stances.

Political parties can be useful mechanisms to group together people who share similar ideologies and beliefs, but when they become de facto business entities more interested in their own interests rather than those of the electorate, change is seriously in order.

If I had the choice, I would want to be able to choose the individual acting on my behalf and not some political corporation whose instinct is its own survival.

La Virgen de los Guiris

Welcoming the Virgen

In this week's Camino a Ítaca a look at one of the more hermetic aspects of Spanish culture. It's a facet that is impenetrable and somewhat incomprehensible for outsiders looking in to understand. Click over to read the original article published in el HOY in Spanish or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

There’s something bizarre, a bit ludicrous and perhaps even a touch sad about observing a Scottish immigrant to Spain vociferously defending delusional secessionist arguments about their adopted home in Catalonia on Twitter. The facility with which these holier-than-thou newcomers adopt the hoary tropes that the Catalan bourgeoisie use to maintain their power and status, or assimilate the half-truths repeated by thieving politicians to cover up their corruption, solely to appear integrated, is disconcerting to say the least.

Less alarming efforts by immigrants to go native and incorporate into the prevailing culture can be seen when we do things like adopt the local football club, change the way we dress, write for regional newspapers or become involved in local festivities. These are all undertaken in the protracted, convoluted process of adapting to a new place, acculturating and becoming a full-fledged member of society.

But while attempts to acclimatize come in many forms there remains one facet of Spanish society that is cut off from outsiders. It’s a barrier that persists as impenetrable, impervious and impassable: the cults of the Virgin.

Whether it’s Argeme, Castillo, Guadalupe, Montaña, Puerto, Soledad, or Valle, these metamorphized Matronae cults are the essence of local. They are quintessentially from the tierra and in some ways are the tierra. They are inextricably linked to stars, caves, trees, springs, rivers or rocks and are essentially the local representatives of a foreign creed born on another continent more than three thousand kilometers away.

And for someone who wasn’t born into the tradition, it remains entirely abstruse.

What are the worshippers worshipping? Is it the idea of the Virgin Mary, somehow beyond the image? Or are they, in a pre-Christian, idolatry way worshipping the statue itself, even if this is uncomfortably close to the worship of images expressly prohibited in the second of the ten commandments?

Marianist images like these seem to serve as telephone operators for the faithful with a direct line to a more distant divine. These Virgins are interlocuters that intercede and relay people’s prayers to God. They act as perceptible go-betweens with the Almighty while providing a convenient out when prayers aren’t answered. For those of us on the outside, the adoration of these charismatic mediators with the supernatural is recondite and obscure.

The power these Virgins perceive is equally perplexing to an incomer. Believers and non-believers alike proclaim to be followers and even the most ardent agnostic can claim to be devoted to their local deity.

This influence extends beyond the personal sphere too. Politicians of every stripe and color flock to their ceremonies and in places like Caceres, article 14 of the constitution is blithely ignored for a week as the image is presented with the baton of the city. In some cases, they are even granted the status of being mayors in perpetuity. However, dare to question the privilege these manifestations wield and the numinous meekness of the faithful quickly turns to ire at the mere mention of these incongruities.

I can only imagine if so much fervor and energy were spent defending our health services, securing non-flammable train service, quality education or clean ground water withoutlithium mines. The miracles we could produce. 

Socks with Sandals

In this week's Camino a Ítaca a look at an unusual fashion statement, complete with fearsome canines in tow. A Spanish comedian once said that the Spanish would rather give up a kidney before admiting they are wrong and there just might be a bit of truth to this. Click over to read the original version in Spanish in el HOY or read the English translation before. (PDF en castellano abajo)

Up the hill, two distinct, dangerous breeds of dogs ranged across the length and breadth of the wide sidewalk. Their unfastened muzzles audibly dragged along the ground as the one on the right left a trail of saliva streaming behind it. Both animals flanked their twenty-something owner, their leashes attached to the drawstring that barely held up his grey sweatpants, leaving his heavily tattooed arms free to use his phone and smoke.

Complete and utter pandemonium was just a stray cat away. The slightest tug from either of the muscular brutes would have caused an immediate cartoon-like scandal, bringing his pants down to his ankles faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. Sweatpants that just happened to be tucked into a pair of high white striped sports socks that led down to the most surprising accessory yet, a pair of bathroom-style flip flops. Effectively proving that it isn’t only guiris (foreigners) who opt for the socks and sandals fashion statement.

As he reached the gated entrance that leads to both the nursery and public schools, he untied the pedigrees from his pants and then hitched them to a lamppost. Only then did he loosely fit their muzzles over their powerful jaws.

The small groups of parents outside the gates awaiting the school bell uneasily edged away from the reach of their leashes, past the line of cars parked in the yellow no-parking zone and into the street with moving traffic.

The scene was almost comical in its absurdity. The dogs, the leashes, the muzzles, the cigarettes, the cars parked where they shouldn’t be, the parents waiting in traffic… yet no one, myself included, raised their voice in concern, no one said a word. No one complained.

I’ve often admired Spain’s laissez-faire attitude to social matters and towards what is socially acceptable. Rarely do you find people putting their nose directly in other people’s business, even if they profoundly disagree. Sure, they will comment and criticize the matter with others, but unlike some other countries, it’s not common to find someone directly confronting and criticizing someone that they do not know and much less in an individual capacity.

This reluctance is also perhaps due to the reaction that they might receive if and when they do venture to comment. On the few occasions that parents have mentioned that something like parking directly in front of the doors is prohibited, rather than offering an excuse or an apology, the infringer often goes vengefully on the attack instead of apologizing and meekly admitting their wrongdoing. On more than one occasion I have seen someone standing directly under a sign prohibiting parking, vehemently defending their ‘right’ to park where they please when they have to pick up their little one.

Pandemonium that day was averted. No small dogs or children were eaten, no stray cat appeared and the dog owner’s pants thankfully remained in place. After picking up his toddler and once again fastening the dogs to his waist, he parted the seas of families and went on his way between the illegally parked cars. Nothing happened.

That is until the day the stray cat does appear and something does.

The Procession of the Holy Ice Cream

Creepy Ice Cream

A precipitous ice cream stop in today's Camino a Ítaca. In Spain, often calendar dates have more sway and are more important than what is actually happening out on the streets. Click over to read the originally published article in Spanish in el HOY or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

The queue trailed out the ice cream shop, past a rather villainous looking statue of an ice cream cone, down the pedestrian street and into the square. Short sleeves and the odd tourist in shorts rubbed shoulders with puffer vests and jackets in the narrow lane. The relative coolness of the shade contrasted sharply with the sun’s warm glare that shone down on those sheltering under a shock of blooming trees at the far end of the line.

I was passing the crowd, when a little girl around four years old ran up to her mother with her jacket tied around her waist, and repeatedly pleaded, “Mommy, can I have an ice cream!” The entreating mother conferred with her eyes with the father in his puffer jacket across the crowd. “An ice cream!” he exclaimed, somewhat heedless of the growing queue and much to the dismay of the little girl, “whoever heard of having an ice cream in March?!”

His categorical response was reflected in the mirrored shutters of the closed up ice cream shop on the opposite side of the street. A casualty who also thought it was too early to be serving vanilla, chocolate and strawberry frozen treats.

I’ve always been intrigued by the near obsessive attention and importance placed on dates here in Spain, regardless of what is actually happening outside your window. The calendar year revolves more around saints and oracular processes like the shamanistic way of determining when Semana Santa falls, rather than the actual temperature. Even if spring thermometers creep into the thirties, it takes a brave nonconformist to break out the sandals before the socially acceptable time. Social conventions that are becoming even more atavistic with global warming and the earlier onsets of spring.

But the most incomprehensible date is the opening of the swimming pools.

The month of May can be scorching but the relief of a swimming pool remains a distant reality for most due to some arbitrary date set in the town hall.

It reminds me of an anecdote a friend of mine told me that happened while he was living in another country with deeply ingrained traditions, Japan.

In the land of the rising sun, like here, the swimming season doesn’t open until late June. That year, the month of May was unseasonably hot and he lived in a town in the north that had a wonderful lake. One day he could stand it no longer and decided to go for a swim.

In the heat of the afternoon, he went down to the lake, dove in and started to swim. While he was swimming a small crowd began to gather on the shore, astounded at what they were seeing. As this rather large, heavily bearded Caucasian man emerged from the waters, a noticeable gasp arose from the crowd.

Realizing the faux pas he had made, he opted to salute the gathering. “Fear not, despite my appearance am not a ghost and am simply a man who could not take the heat any longer.”

If the heat continues to rise in the coming weeks, I too may feel forced to commit a similar indiscretion. That, or at least my toes will. 

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!

Remember the Applause for the Healthcare Workers?

Stoke the fear, Reap the rewards

Deep in the pandemic, people vented their frustration and showed their support out their windows every evening at 8pm. Where is that support now. This week's Camino a Ítaca looks at the  dangerous slide towards privatizing a world class health system. Click over to read the original piece in Spanish in el HOY or read the English translation before. (PDF en castellano abajo).

One of my first experiences with the Spanish health service was as a teacher rather than a patient. A group of differing specialists were some of my very first students in Caceres and our classes were held in San Pedro de Alcantara hospital. One day class happened to coincide with a high level event being held across the street in the San Francisco complex and security was tight.

This was during the aftermath of the September 11^th attacks and events like these saw more security than ever. Security checkpoints were everywhere and the pulmonologist from the group was sent out to lead me through the successive security cordons.

We progressed through the various rings of police when we were stopped inside the hospital by the Guardia Civil and told that I didn’t have the proper access and could go no further.

At this, the pulmonologist became livid, “What do you mean our teacher can’t pass? He’s obviously no terrorist. Why don’t you stop someone who is actually doing something wrong? Like that guy over there!” At this he pointed towards a patient, complete in his hospital gown, smoking directly under a sign forbidding it.

Things have changed a lot since that rather uncomfortable moment. Smoking is no longer ubiquitous and you can’t conceive of someone smoking in a public place in front of a police officer, let alone in a hospital. True, it’s still never entirely clear which laws will be overlooked or ignored, but smoking in public thankfully isn’t one of them.

What hasn’t changed is the professionalism and dedication of our healthcare workers. Heaven forbid that anyone should fall ill or be injured abroad, but in the case that they are, they very soon appreciate just how skilled those who work here really are.

Unfortunately, what has changed is the support they receive from the public administration. Madrid may get all the negative press about their deteriorating, increasingly privatized health service, but when was the last time you tried to get an appointment with your doctor?

Long gone are the days when you could get an appointment the same day or the next at the latest. Now waits of four, five days, even a week are the norm. And that is if you don’t live in towns like Guadalupe, where there is an acute lack of specialists.

Spain’s world class health service was one of the initial attractions that made me realize just how high the quality of life is here. It’s a service that directly affects everyone regardless of their political leanings. Even if you do have enough to pay for private health insurance, when things get serious, it’s often the public health service that ends up saving lives.

The private healthcare giants are, however, devious and have infiltrated both major parties. In doing so, they have pushed for this deterioration of services across the country. A move which has directly translated into record numbers for them.

Public health is a question of equality. Unless we wish to be forced to run #GoFundMe campaigns to help pay for cancer treatments as they do in America, in the upcoming elections support the party that makes public healthcare a genuine commitment.

Showing their True Colors

Have mercy! Been waiting for the bus all day on the Camino a Ítaca. Things are going to get partisan ugly this election year here in Spain and a simple bus ride can tell the tale. Click over to read the originally published version in Spanish at el HOY or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

A lone, conscientious smoker stands downwind from the sundry crowd. With each drag on his cigarette, he checks his watch and nervously looks up the street. Less thoughtful smokers heedlessly fumigate the crowd standing around them, sharing their cancerous, time-killing smoke with bystanders and passersby alike. Under their shuffling feet, the tile is littered with relics of the legions of blithe smokers who stood there before them, waiting.

Impenetrable scribblings of unimaginative graffiti artists are etched into the poles and scrawled on the walls. To the left, a pair of middle-aged mothers commiserate over their grocery trolleys about their futile efforts to minimize the effect of the rising costs of living, while to the right, a young family of immigrants dote on a baby swathed in warm blankets in her carriage. The baby’s older brother sits quietly in his stroller beside her, mesmerized by a series playing on a mobile phone perched on his lap.

Groups of teenagers talking just loud enough to cut through the surrounding traffic, exude vitality and energy, striking a stark contrast to the blank, waiting faces around them. The tepid afternoon sun shines just in the spot where savvy pensioners jostle to catch the last dying rays. Those who have found a seat under the shelter sit like waiting crouching turtles as they stare down at their mobile phones.

It’s a familiar scene that repeats itself at bus stops in cities across the region. But as each rider struggles to find the still obligatory face mask as they get on the bus, they realize that not everyone is going to pay the same price.

That’s because the central government has offered to subsidize 30 percent of bus fares until June. That is provided that the municipalities contribute at least another 20 percent of the cost, thus implying a substantial discount of at least half the price. In Caceres, riders will enjoy a 50% discount while in Merida they have agreed to 100%.

But why aren’t the same benefits being enjoyed in Badajoz and Plasencia?

The answer is simple, if slightly nauseating: partisan politics.

Rather than accept the generous, albeit clearly electoral gesture from the central government, each city governed by the opposition has made the conscious decision to reject a measure that directly benefits those who use public transport to go about their day to day. Rather than offer some relief to those from all sides of the political spectrum struggling to cope with the inflationary crisis, they have declined the offer in a vain attempt to silence the measure and diminish its electoral repercussions in an election year.

Back at the bus stop, I look around and realize that someone is missing from the scene. This portrait of the city, reflected in its bus riders, is fullish but somewhat incomplete. It brings to mind the words of the ex-mayor of Bogota, Enrique Peñalosa. Words that would be better suited on the wall than all the meaningless scribble.

“An advanced city is not one in which the poor can move around in a car, but one in which even the rich use public transportation.”

And then I come to a disturbing conclusion. Maybe there’s more to their refusal than just politics?

January's Icy Blues

It's cold out there on the Camino a Ítaca this week. The cover of a New Yorker issue sparked a refection on what has brought me so far from my origins. Click over to read the original version published in Spanish in el HOY or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

It’s never a good sign when you wake up in the morning and from the warm, comfortable confines of your blanketed bed you can see your breath spread out above you. Each exhalation acts as a stark reminder of just how cold it is outside the welcome embrace of your nordic duvet. That fluffy shield that acts as a barrier between you and the freezing, cruel winter world that awaits just beyond your warm feet.  

Thirty years ago I set out from a frozen, snowy place somewhere near the top of the world. I happened to be born in the last city of any real size, in what some people have called the New World. A place where the fabled Alaskan highway starts and the true great north opens up and skids across the tundra and ice all the way to the North Pole.

It was only after years of travel that I came to the very Canadian realization that, in most places in the world, six or seven months of the year did not have to be lived with the painful reality of thirty below temperatures and the near-constant threat of frozen ears. Since that day, I became what I call a climactic refugee and have sought out places to live that don’t suffer from such extreme conditions. Yet I ended up, somewhat ironically, in a place that carries ‘extreme’ in its name.

As a Canadian here in Extremadura I am often asked how it is possible to survive winters in a snow and icebound place where the temperatures can often spend weeks at thirty below zero. The answer is relatively easy. In Canada, the only time that you are cold is when you are outside. A place you avoid as much as possible by traveling directly from warmed cars to heated buildings. It would be unthinkable to live in a place where there was no heating, it would literally be a question of life or death.

But here in Extremadura, shielded from the northern storms below the central mountain chain, you find many homes whose only source of heat is a brazier or plug-in radiators. Gadgets that take the bite out of the air but happily eat up giga watts from the extortionate electric companies and are only turned on when your hands start turning blue.

While climate change and its effects were made only too clear this past summer, this week has seen the return of winter and its accompanying cold. This chilly reality was reflected in something a friend posted on Facebook recently. It was the cover of the New Yorker magazine where January was depicted as an advent calendar filled with various climate emergencies. Monday was grey, Tuesday wet, Wednesday foggy, Thursday freezing and Friday, cold, wet, grey and foggy, with each week getting worse and worse.

Watching my breath extend in from of me, I’m filled with the blind, illusory hope that climate change, like certain seasonal birds, will only visit in the winter months. We still have at least one more month of cold to go, but as my friend commented on her post, at least February is three days shorter than January!

Pedro's Cakes

Brioche cake

In this week's Camino a Ítaca, a cursory look at the Spanish government's reaction to the ongoing inflation crisis that is sweeping across the world. Click over to read the original article in el HOY in Spanish or read the English translation below. (PDF abajo)

It’s finally over. The marathon with seemingly no end that is the Spanish Christmas holiday season has finally finished. Today, as you ask what to do with the leftovers from yesterday’s meal, you start to take balance of what the successive holiday meals have cost and wonder: was it all really worth it?

According to El País, these costs have risen 40% over the past year in some cases. Price increases that have been ostensibly blamed on the impact that the war in Ukraine has had on production and global supply chains. This, combined with anterior increases in energy prices, have led to rises that have been especially noticeable on staple products. Day to day items such as flour, butter, sugar or the mayonnaise for your prawns have all experienced increases of 40% and sometimes more.

It's a number that seems to repeat itself, somewhat cynically, when you take into account that the profits of the five major Spanish energy companies shot up by 40% in the first three quarters of 2022. All this during an economic slowdown that has also perplexingly seen the banking sector post the highest earnings in its history. Entities like Santander, BBVA, CaixaBank and Bankinter all closed the year with record profits.

Within this scenario, Pedro el guapo, as the American press christened him, has come out with measures that parallel the famous phrase wrongly attributed to Marie Antoinette, ‘Let them eat pasteles.’

In the midst of the worst inflation crisis in decades, the government’s reaction has been to suppress the 4% VAT on certain staple items and lower others from 10% to 5%, pasteles indeed. A move that was floated by the opposition earlier in the year and criticized by prominent members of the government’s own coalition only weeks ago.

What makes the measure even more baffling is that it has been taken with full knowledge and experience that whenever VAT is lowered, large companies simply increase their unit profit margins a week later. Just as was experienced with the electric and film sectors, companies will simply absorb the VAT cut on basic foodstuffs and then tack on further increases. The delusion that they will choose to act ethically is akin to a vegan campaigner asking a lion to choose broccoli over lamb. It simply isn’t in its DNA.

What is needed are price interventions to reign in the profits of these companies that are making a fortune. Regrettably, the government has given up its legal mandate to prevent these extortionary profit margins by imposing price ceilings, as has happened in other countries.

Any tax cut in a sector such as food, without effective price controls, will simply be included in prices in two days and will solve nothing. Without price controls, lowering VAT is an amigo invisible subsidy gift to capital and results in less taxes in the public coffers, causing a further deterioration of public services.

After decades of economic deregulation, the government is either unable or unwilling to take preemptive measures in this debilitating crisis. Rather than making bold, definitive moves to proactively curb these predatory practices, it seems to have gifted the opposition with a new campaign slogan, ‘let them eat seafood’.