On Sunday we went out and met a friend who is a regular reader of my blog. He loves the bits where we get ourselves in a pickle or some thing unwelcome happens. It makes him laugh. But he hates the factual bits, the Political bits and anything he considers ‘Boring”.
So this blog should at least please one reader.
Friday we set off on the bus to Garrucha where there is usually a market.
Initially the market filled the streets that ran parallel with the beach road. It crowded into the narrow streets which wer clogged with people all trying to walk and shop whilst old ladies obstructed their path with shopping trolleys laden with Potatoes and other fresh produce. The long leads attached to tiny white dogs acted like trip wires for the unwary whilst Spanish women stood in knots in the middle of the walkway exchanging gossip. Muslim women in full Burka prowled the streets looking for bargains.
The smell of Roast Chicken filled the air until you walked past the Flower stall, then the scent of Jasmin took over. Sweet stalls offered instant Dental Decay whilst the crowd satisfied their desire for yet more fake T shirts and Adidas trainers.
It was an intoxicating mix and one most tourists and many residents couldn’t resist.
The streets were lined with coffee shops and bars that gratefully snared the shoppers with offers of Coffee, Beer and Tapas.
But a few years ago for some reason, the market was moved from the back streets to the actual port car park, which was sensible but didn’t have the appeal of the street market.
It was still popular non the less.
Then things changed, yet again.
Last year the whole sea front (Passeo) was dug up and a new modern replacement was installed.
This meant there were diggers and cranes, noise and dust where there was once sunshine and relaxation. Where there were buskers and tourists there was construction. It was almost impossible to sit outside any of the bars and restaurants without a fully functioning dust mask so people stayed away.
This year when we alighted from the bus at our usual stop there was no sign of the market and more worryingly, no sign of the crowds that we had expected. We walked along the length of the Port wall without bumping into anyone or having to manoeuvre around obstructions.
It was beautiful. The new walking area was perfectly manicured, clean and surprisingly level.
Without a sign of the market we were a bit deflated, so we decided to stop for Coffee and re-assess our plans. Across the road was El Faro Belga our first encounter with the Belgian colonisation of this part of Spain.
There is a Belgian Bakers at Burganvillas, a Belgian Bar On the Playa in Mojacar and at least one new Belgian shop in Mojacar.
It looked modern and clean, had some available tables outside in the sunshine and was close by.
The perfect choice.
I ordered two Coffee’s and enquired about the market?
We were told that if we took any of the roads that run off the beach road (Paseo del Malecon) and went right up to the top of the hill, we would find the market. In fact it was just over the brow of the Hill with stunning view across the new By Pass.
Before we left I thought it might be prudent to use the loo as the Coffee had worked its magic, so i wandered to the back of the Restaurant where there was a shiny new cubicle with neat tiled walls, a nice clean basin and toilet paper.
In the past I have found it prudent to check all the essentials before using the loo. Often you find there is no seat or no lock on the door, no toilet paper or soap, which can be problematic after the event.
This particular venue had all the essential.
Now we Brits find it a bit off putting having to put the soiled paper in a bucket rather than flush it down the toilet, but the Spanish drains cant always cope, so ‘when in Rome’.
After I had finished I put the paper in the basket provided, got up, flushed and started to wash my hands.
One last cursory check to make sure I’d left everything ship shape and I was off.
Can you imagine my horror when I saw my deposits were still there in the bottom of the pan. Looking as fresh as when I put them there.
Undeterred, I flushed again.
Then the panic set in.
I watched the water level rise to the point where it almost spilt over.
My immediate reaction was to ‘leg it,’ to run out of the Cafe, shout a warning to Jaki and keep going till I was out of sight.
I dont know why this is my default response to a crisis?
In the past several of my work colleagues and I decided we would make some extra money by cutting down bunches of Mistletoe from an aviation storage depot on our station ground, and sell it in the run up to Christmas. We were allowed into the site by security where we put a ladder up into a particularly laden tree and the Station Officer clambered up and started cutting huge bunches of Mistletoe. However there was a slight slip, he fell and his ankle got snagged on some branches.
He ended up hanging from the Tree like an angry, cursing Pinata.
Our first reaction was to run away, but as he was our driver, we had to go back and cut him down. We abandoned our money making enterprise and went back to the station empty handed.
So on this occasion I realised I should stay and deal with the emergency as best I could,
There was a plunger on the floor (which suggested to me that the toilet had blocked up before) and a brush, but the water was at a critical level and last time i had tried using a plunger in a toilet, it hadn’t ended well.
The only thing to do was to report it to the staff.
Now my command of Spanish is poor. I can order some drinks and some food but i have never tried to have a conversation about the plumbing (or lack of) in a Spanish Toilets.
It looked particularly daunting so I kept it simple.
With some pointing and holding of my nose, I was able to convey to the Patron that there was an event which he might want to investigate, before the next customer came in.
Then I encouraged Jaki to join me as I ran around the corner and hid.
This isn’t my first encounter with a broken toilet.
When I met the first Mrs ND we had to go to Manchester to meet her parents for the first time.
It was a particularly uncomfortable affair for all concerned which wasn’t helped by their dodgy flush.
They warned me that the flush some times ‘played up’ and had to be pumped to get it to work.
At the end of the weekend, we were saying our goodbyes before setting off on the drive back to Bristol.
I decided to use the loo before we left and predictably the toilet wouldn’t flush. I didn’t panic. I left things as they were and took my case out to the car, thinking I would return and re-flush before we left.
We were some where north of Gloucester when I remembered I had left them a particularly large parcel as a fare well present.
It might have been the beginning of the end for that relationship. We just never seemed to build any trust after that.
How could I ever warm to some one who booby traps their toilet?
Bill and Jaki go Travelling 