Huerta Santa Maria

Near Galaroza

Walking with Javier to Galaroza

 Our Huerta in the Sierra de Aracena is glorious. We are encircled by hills coated in leafless nut trees. We are warmed during the day by a powerful sun and chilled to the bone at night.

Santa Maria has everything but an Internet-capable phone line. Javier has a radio telephone for communication with the outside world. We have access to a phone jack in the 5^th unfinished bedroom. I have tried in vain to connect through the airwaves but am continually rejected by my server. The radio antenae pegged on Javier's roof can only send voice messages and that's all he needs.

This inconvenience draws me even closer to Javier. He is the host that becomes the friend that becomes the partner in our Saraphina Mosey exploits. It is through Javier that we gain access to the Internet. It is through his network that we will get to ours. His is within walking distance. Ours is within satelite distance.

Pilar, Javier's fiancé, is standing in the garden with arms crossed and an obvious frown. She stares at Javier while he plays with Wilfred on the tractor. Javier and I fill the tractor with wood from his shed. Pilar approaches and stands silent, staring.

Javier announces that he is going into Galaroza to have a little vino with friends at a local bar. He informs me that the owner has recently adopted the Internet as a career change and would allow me to use his phone line in exchange for a little shop talk. Desperate to publish ten days of mosey I respond enthusiastically and race upstairs to gather my laptop.

Javier and Pilar heatedly exchange words. I peek around the corner and notice that Wilfred has wandered into the kitchen to find Javier. Wilfred stares up at the exchange which he cannot understand but comprehends nonetheless. I feel embarrassed for Wilfred although I know that the open nature of Javier doesn't require the concern. I take my politeness outside with me and sit in the sun. Javier reappears. He informs me that Pilar is not well or that her mother is sick in Seville and that she will not be joining us on the trip to Galaroza.

The Road to Galaroza

The road to Galaroza runs along the outside of Javier's home. The much-traveled rural superhighway’s onramp is a simple iron gate. Javier says the pumpkin-sized stones set into the red earth mark the original Roman road from Portugal to Seville. Surveying the eight-foot wide path cut through the hillside, I believe him.

We come upon an out-of-place, solid cement bridge. It's gross size hints that the hard, dry earth must not hold the rain creating torrents that race down the hillsides. Further along, Javier stops and spreads his arms telling me that this is his most favourite place on Earth. This little valley with a river on the left and an embankment on the right remains cool all day. Even in early afternoon, frost remains on the thick pile of leaves covering the path. Javier takes two halves of a chestnut shell and gently sets them on the river. They float out of sight.

Dogs bark and cower as we continue. Lambs, hours old, bleet and follow us along the fence as if we could provide them the comfort they are missing. Javier points to a place in the path where the old stones have been torn from the ground. He explains that he did this to prevent the 4X4s from Seville from using the path as a recreational playground. Javier is protective of the lands surrounding Santa Maria.

The path continues into an inhabitated area. Crossing the river a second time, there are new homes with large white walls and paved patios. Rottweilers guard visciously as we pass by their eight foot fence. These dogs have no friends. They aren't intended to be friends. Javier doesn't like this part of the path.

The country road ends and we join up with the modern motorway. Cars and trucks fly by ruining a peaceful walk through this lovely countryside. Within minutes we are at a small bar/restaurant on the corner of the highway. Javier opens the door and we enter.

A Family Bar

It’s 2pm and Javier and I are the only customers in the bar. As we take to our stools a young, steely eyed bartender hands Javier a newspaper. Javier orders una vino tinto and I my usual cervesa. As the drinks arrive, Javier introduces me to the bartender, Juilo, who acknowledges me with a handshake. Julio speaks no French or English. A second newspaper appears.

The bar continues to sit silently as Javier and I flip through the newspapers. I struggle to comprehend the Spanish. Javier translates the weather report for me. Rain is coming, but only for a few days. I've finished my beer. I’m restless. It's been almost one week since I have retrieved email or published our website. I want to get down to business. I’m quickly learning that pleasure comes before business in Spain.

Javier gets up when his wine is finished and heads behind the bar, into its kitchen. I watch intently through the ordering window to see what new players are lurking behind the scenes. I am hoping that Javier is connecting with his network.

Fernando shakes my hand with a smile. His eyes are alight as he says "It is very nice to meet you" with a soft Spanish accent. There is a pause as I wait for the next formality, the next step on my path to the Internet.

Fernando motions to the bar top and says "Let's see it!". I interpret "it" as my laptop, which Javier has undoubtedly characterized as something incredible. Within minutes I am walking Javier, Juilo and Fernando through Saraphina Mosey. Fernando is impressed with the organization and graphics on the site. He asks many poignant questions trying to understand how I have created it. Javier is amazed at the images and struggles to comprehend it all. Julio wants to know if Sara has sold any paintings.

In the half-hour it takes to download my email I am served two more cervesas and a hot plate of chirros and garbanzo beans. As I work intently, the bar fills. Fernando and Julio’s wives arrive with their children. Another family enters. The noise level increases.

Things are getting foggy. It’s dragging into the siesta hour. I notice Javier has quieted down and is pacing about. It’s time to return to Santa Maria. We arrange to meet with Fernando at his house at 8pm. I ask to pay for the phone line and the food and drinks – a desperate attempt to repay Javier for his generosity. Fernando informs me that "Javier doesn’t pay for anything in my bar." We leave with an "a la hora’, well-fed and watered.

Fernando's House

Julio draws me a map so I can find Fernandos’ house. His drawing is skilled. The map includes sensitively drawn roads and homes, but his map lacks the detail necessary to navigate a Spanish village’s non-linear streets. Alfi and I meander through the village until a narrow road spits us into a neighbouring plaza.

Fernando lives on one corner of the Plaza as Juilo’s map indicates. I find the city hall on the opposing corner of the Plaza but do not find the stairs leading the the home nor the tiled name of "Le Borreau". I wander the square trying to match Julio’s map to my location. The locals watch intently but offer no help. I’m getting cold and the laptop is heavy. I consult a bartender as to where I am relative to my map. Not surprisingly, the map makes perfect sense to him. I need to go to the next Plaza. Silly me.

After proceeding further down the road I find a small Plaza half torn up by city workers. I park Alfi by a pile of sand and Julio’s map immediately makes sense. I bump into Fernando at his door as he is leaving to find me.

He ushers me into the first room, where his computer sits on a desk. Four feet from the desk is a wide fireplace. The hearth is an inferno of red coals and logs. It’s cozy warm.

In a minute I am sending mosey’s pages to the greater world. I smell burning plastic. That fire is making my laptop very hot.

I’m showing Fernando how I make the website. He is quite thrilled and tells me how he can use it to make websites for his friends.

I head into the darkness following Alfi’s headlights and the only road available. I hope that "all roads lead to Santa Maria" and that eventually I will be back on the main highway. A right, then a left. Is this the highway? Yes it’s the highway. On my way home now.

Saraphina Mosey - Inspiration for exploring life.
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Last modified: February 21, 1999