Priego de Cordoba, Baena and Cordoba in Spain 2013

It was the usual rush by taxi from Barajas airport to catch the fast train to Cordoba from Atocha Station in Madrid. Always allowing more than adequate time for this simple transfer, I must have a jinx with landing in Madrid. The airport is magnificent but its sheer size provides many opportunities for things to go amiss.  My luggage was lost again, to be found lonely on a carousel well away from the designated one. The staff were helpful and most apologetic, and the taxi driver stretched the limits.

With minutes to spare I settled into the comfortable seat on the train and watched as the sprawling outskirts of Madrid flashed past. I have done this trip many times but never tire of the opening plains with their patchwork of olive groves. A guest of the Spanish Extra Virgin Olive Oil Association, I was on my way to their congress in Cordoba where their new international quality movement QvExtra! was to be launched.

In the lead up my hosts had arranged a few days of visits with the olive producers whose extra virgin olive oils we frequently taste on the International Extra Virgin Olive Oil Savantes programme. These olive oils consistently win the highest awards at the many international competitions held around the world and I am looking forward to meeting the millers and blenders.

Arriving in Cordoba it was a short taxi ride to the hotel and a nights rest to overcome the jet-lag which is always the legacy of the long flight from Australia.

In the morning I meet Soledad Serrano Lopez, Presidencia of QvExtra!, accomplished equestrian and the driving force behind the revitalisation of Finca Duernas, the Serrano-López family estate near Cordoba. Soledad is gracious in her greeting, as she is in everything. As the Presidencia of QvExtra she has the challenging task of uniting producers of high quality extra virgin olive oil around the world, a task that will require all her obvious diplomatic skill and resourcefulness.

We go around the corner to the well known and very Spanish Omunda de Alicia, Plaza de la Trinidad 4, for breakfast. There followed an animated discussion on the challenges of the olive oil industry in general and in particular the ambitious agenda of QvExtra! to create a cohesive international quality movement.

Left to right) Simon Field, Soledad Serrano Lopez, Tala Saket and ‘Pepe’ Josemaria                         Serrano Lopez at the QvExtra! Lunch in Cordoba

After breakfast I met Soledad’s office staff. A tightly knit group of women who not only support the Duernas Oleum extra virgin olive oil brand but also provide the administration for QvExtra! Soledad quips that the main qualification to work in the office is to be a mother with at least one child!

Later I am collected from the hotel by Manuel Heredia Halcon, Marques of Prado and the principal of Suerte Alta. Manuel is an architect by profession, erudite and the secretary of QvExtra! We drive the relatively short distance to Duernas Oleum where we are met by Josemaria Serrano Lopez, Soledad’s brother and better known as ‘Pepe’.

Pepe, who is responsible for the production of the extra virgin olive oil, gives us a tour of the mill where the olives are crushed and oil extracted. The facility is working as the harvest is not quite over. The aroma is of fresh extra virgin olive oil, once experienced never forgotten. From there we go out into the groves to watch the harvesting and on to a high point where we get a good view of the farm and the water reticulation system. It is extremely dry and the trees on the higher ground are suffering, despite the olive tree being extraordinarily resilient in its ability to extract almost all the moisture from the soil and survive the driest of conditions.

Pepe describing the water reticulation system at Finca Duernas

We return to the homestead for lunch.  Tapas and fine Spanish wine in front of an olive wood fire in a stately room that breathes history from the tiled floor to the high beams from which are suspended generations of cowbells.

Lunch at Finca Duernas 

We taste the extra virgin olive oil, Duernas Oleum, made by the Serrano-Lopez family. The varietal is arbequina and the oil is fresh with fruity aromas and titillates the palate with subtle bitter vegetal tastes followed by pepper heat and a nutty almond finish. It is olive oil of quality befitting the Presidencia of QvExtra!

It is late and time to move on with Manuel to his farm Suerte Alta near the small town of Albedin in Baena. I am shown into a grand bedroom in the residencia which has been one of the family homes for generations. Dinner is soon served by Isabella, the housekeeper who makes it her business to meet the needs of the household in a warm and familial way. Manuel and I talk late into the night, getting to know each other while feeling that after many years of communication by email we do in fact know each other already.

I learn about the often turbulent history of the region and the farm which seems to have been positioned along the front battlelines of many campaigns. High on the hills surrounding the farm can be seen the ancient watchtowers which mark these historical delineations. Manuel tells of the time during one campaign when the opposing armies occupied trenches on opposite sides of the house but the house itself was never damaged and on Sundays, altercations ceased while each side in turn partook of the housekeeper’s churros. On each Monday the battle continued with care being taken not to destroy the dwelling. Later, I was to have the pleasure of having Isabella’s churros for breakfast and they made the tale totally believable.

After breakfast the next morning I met Bomba, Manuel’s German Shepherd who diligently guards the courtyard. His friendly demeanour towards me showed that he had detected my love for German Shepherds, the only breed I have ever owned.

Bomba

We set off into the groves to find the harvesters, it was misty and we stopped regularly to track the sound of the tractors. First we found the shakers with canopies which catch the olives as they are dislodged from the tree. Workers beat the tree where recalcitrant olives refuse to be dislodged.

Harvesting with canopies

In another part of the grove the tractor borne shakers grip the tree and vibrate the branches sending the olives flying onto nets which are drawn into a special trailer which collects the olives for despatch to the mill.

In the cool mist the workers greet Manuel without slowing and he is at the receiving end of some friendly banter from his employees. He explains that most of his employees are related to each other and often work shifts in the mill and grove.

                         
A harvester engages Manuel with a little banter

Throughout my stay with Manuel I was struck by the acknowledged interdependence and warm relationship of the owner and the workers and their families. A relationship which must be tested at times when the production and price of extra virgin olive oil hits inevitable lows.

Next we went to the famed Suerte Alta Mill. Both the head miller, Paco, and the facility have been recognised with numerous awards for excellence. As mentioned before, Manuel is an architect who left his practice in Madrid to take responsibility for the hereditary home and the associated groves and olive oil business. He has applied his architectural vision and skill to the design of the processing mill and the packaging of the Suerte Alta extra virgin olive oil.

Everything in the Suerte Alta mill is stainless steel – even the spiral staircase to the cellar


The Suerte Alta packaging in stylish crystal glass bottles reflects the respect for and the quality of the extra virgin olive oil it contains. Cortijo de Suerte Alta Coupage Natural is a blend of picudo, picual and hojiblanca from an old grove where the trees are interplanted and harvested together to give the blend – a ‘natural grove blend’. Picual Enviro is as the name states from the cultivar picual. Enviro denotes the organic status of the entire operation.

The Suerte Alta packaging respects the quality of the contents – in the tasting cellar.

We taste the new season’s oils from the storage tanks. The Coupage Natural is robust and complex with aromas of green and ripe tomato intermingled with fresh herbs including flat leaf parsley and a hint of garlic. It tastes of bitter radicchio, sorrel with tannin and building radish heat and long chilli tingling finish coming forward on the palate. With good length, balance and harmony – it is a show winner. The Picual Enviro is less intense with aromas of green and ripe tomato, citrus and garlic. The palate is a little creamier with bitter tastes of Belgian endive, cress heat and a finish of creamy macadamia nuts with a lingering chilli pepper tingling forward on the palate. It is also balanced, harmonious and complex.

Manuel and Paco

The day ends with another of Isabella’s tasty dinners and a few more hours of conversation at the table with Manuel. He tells me of his project to chronicle the family history from box upon box of archives discovered on his father’s passing. He shows me the room where he does this work – furnished in the period to help set the mood.


I think today is Saturday. Up early to communicate with home via skype in front of the olive wood fire already set by Isabella, and then after breakfast Manuel takes me to Priego de Cordoba. There I meet Pilar Guerrero, the marketing manager for Almazaras de la Subbetica. On the way we see many families out in their groves on the weekend harvesting and the roads are clogged with every manner of conveyance from tractor to family car towing trailer loads of olives destined for crushing for oil.

In contrast to Finca Duernum and Suerte Alta which are family owned, Almazaras de la Subbetica is a cooperative of around 4,000 families. Pilar shows me the mill which is in Priego de Cordoba with the backdrop of the Sierra Subbetica National Park. The main varietals grown are hojiblanca and picudo with all the production and quality of the various farms dictating the delivery bin at the mill. This differentiation offers the farmers incentives to improve the quality of their delivery.

Sierras Subbetica rise behind the receival shed at Rincon de la Subbetica

In the offices we meet Jose Antonio Nieto, the general manager, and I have the privilege of tasting the new season varietals and blends. Rincon de la Subbetica is one of the most awarded extra virgin olive oil in all the world’s competitions. The oil is one of the most aromatic I have tasted and the aroma of fresh green and ripe tomatoes, citrus and honey fills the room when a bottle is opened. The tastes are of fresh bitter herbs, hot cress and a complex unrolling of pepperiness from hot radish to tingling chilli. The oil has a nutty walnut finish and has great length. As someone once described it at Savantes – there is a whole meal of tastes going on in the mouth! Jose Antonio explained how the olive oil from various soils and altitudes were blended to consistently deliver this outstanding product.

 Pilar Guerrero in the cellar at Rincon de la Subbetica.

A visit to the ‘cellar’ with all the storage tanks lined up like stainless steel silos was a revelation in the role the local Protected Denomination of Origin (PDO) system plays. Not only is the production process meticulous, but the control of the product is also extremely strict. All the storage tanks are sealed and monitored by the Priego de Cordoba Protected Denomination of Origin with all movements recorded and accounted for. This ensures that customers truly get the product they pay for.

Pilar then took me to the next significant enterprise in the locality – Mueloliva. I first met the Muela family four years ago when I visited their old mill while presenting Savantes in Seville. A family business, Mueloliva has reinvigourated their enterprise by building a new processing complex and shifting the emphasis from production of bulk to high quality extra virgin olive oil. In four years they have been highly successful with their flagship Venta Del Baron being the most awarded extra virgin olive oil in all competitions worldwide in 2013. Their new processing mill is also in Priego de Cordoba in the Sierras Subbetica and this is where I met with Rafael Muela.

The view of the Sierras Subbetica from Mueloliva

After a tour of the modern facility we tasted the new season Venta de Baron. As in previous years the extra virgin olive oil is set to be a show winner. A blend of hojiblanca and picudo, the robust and complex oil has fresh aromas of green and ripe tomato, sweet basil, flat leaf parsley, honeydew melon and orange zest. On the palate there are bitter tastes of sorrel and cress followed by wasabi and radish heat. The finish is of nutty bitter globe artichoke hearts with tingling chilli heat advancing on the palate. It has outstanding length, balance and harmony. It is another classic extra virgin olive oil from Priego de Cordoba PDO.

On the way back to Suerte Alta I discover that Rafael hasn’t seen Manuel’s mill so that is the first stop. It is a great pleasure to see two masters of their profession and trade discussing the finer points of producing some of the world’s best extra virgin olive oils.

 Manuel explains the operation of his mill to Rafael Muela 

The final day with Manuel is a Sunday and it starts with a great treat – Isabella’s churros. They are delicious and made with a special kitchen utensil which has been passed down through Manuel’s family and is now hard to find.

Isabella making churro's

Full of churros dipped in chocolate we go for a tour of the areas of the farm which I have not seen. I note that there are new varieties being planted to add another dimension to Suerte Alta products and see the huge dam which is the source of the farm’s irrigation water. We then go to Baena and visit the archaeological museum which contains artefacts from pre-history through Iberian, Roman and Muslim times. We then relax in the square with a cool Alhambra beer or two with a backdrop of sculptures commemorating the workers in the olive groves.

 

Olive grove workers are commemorated with sculptures in the park in Baena

The following day we return to Cordoba to prepare for the QvExtra! Congress. It has been an enlightening tour of some of the enterprises that produce excellent extra virgin olive oil. Extra virgin olive oil is not only a natural, flavoursome and healthy liquid, it is also the lives and passions of those that nurture the trees, harvest, extract and blend the oil. This is where it differs from the broadacre production of other vegetable oils, where size and mechanisation take the place of history and tradition.

In this region of Spain there is a community of spirit which has been tested by droughts, floods and disease. More recently, reputations of brands have been sullied by generalised stories of fraud and corruption, many unsubstantiated. In response to this and with justifiable pride in their professionalism and expertise, this group of producers of extra virgin olive oil has rallied to initiate a worldwide movement aiming to restore the reputation of extra virgin olive as the finest and most sought after of all vegetable oils. While accepting that this is an ambitious grass roots push, I have no doubt that my hosts have the determination, expertise and resourcefulness to have a real impact with their endeavour through QvExtra!

Playing Monopoly in London

2009

Yesterday I played Monopoly, only there is no free parking and you get the congestion tax instead. The get out of jail free I hope won't be needed and the Mayor says the community chest is empty.

My counter was a pair of shoes, my sister's a mobile phone, and the first roll of the dice - double six of course - took me to Westminster. Big Ben was silhouetted in the fog which has overlayed London since I arrived. The next throw got me onto the Eye which has replaced one of the utilities on the new Board. Up, up, up we went so slowly, trying not to look down and think of plunging into the cold brown Thames. There was Westminster Abbey and the Palace, St Pauls and Tower Bridge, the Gherkin and all those postcard places.

Then a long walk along the embankment to Tate Modern, the destination of every school tour - and they were all there. I gave the art a miss to escape the giggling pubescent throng.

Across Millenium Bridge where a busker was playing flamenco - heaven - and earned him a quid or two. Past the Middle Page Free House of Dickensian fame (so the sign said), on to the Apostrophe Café to a full stop at St Pauls. There I went to the Chapel of the Order of St Michael and St George and said a muted prayer for Dad who was awarded Membership of the Order.

Bought a poppy and remembered each of the soldiers killed in our Company in the Rhodesian war - a poignant moment in the precincts of St Pauls. I shed a tear or two.

Then to some retail therapy around the Board. From St Pauls a poor throw of four got me to Oxford Circus and I plunged into Oxford Street. Passed Go and bought John Lewis, Selfridges and Marks and Sparks with the two hundred quid I collected. Wandered through the perfumeries of my new properties, beautiful people smelling beautiful. The bag Prada was there too.

I bought a small voice recorder so I can take copious verbal notes of all I see and download it all onto the computer. So clever, it doubles as an MP3 player so I can look cool too.

Not looking so cool is my waistline, will have to adopt a strict regime when I get back. Lots of food, wine and more exercise. Later at Knightsbridge the Bouncing Buddhas gym served as a reminder that there is a price to be paid for sedentary existence and gastronomic indulgence.

Then to Bond Street and Marble Arch. A few throws later and I was in the Mitre at Lancaster Gate meeting a University friend Colin. An entrepeneur, he is one of the world's characters. His main business is taking tours of his friends to strange places - cycling in Borneo, climbing in Mexico, eating in Crete, hiking in Sicily.

Today, it was down the streets of Sheen past the inevitable council workers digging up the road. They no longer have shovels to lean on, everything is mechanised, so they lean on the ditchwitch and talk into their mobile phones. There is a smell of gas and a no flames no smoking sign has been erected - one of the labourers is smoking and talking on his mobile.

Onto the 209 bus which charged down the narrow streets to Hammersmith, bullying its way through timid traffic, missing cars by millimetres. Then down onto the Piccadilly line to Knightsbridge, emerging on Brompton Road to signs directing to Harrods, and McDonalds. Past Burberry, Zara, Armani, Kipling, Jaeger, Hawes and Curtis, where Dad bought his suits, and many others.

The verdigris covered towers and green awnings of Harrods covered window displays of languid plastic models reclining on sumptuous linen, Aston Martins sporting plastic Bonds, not Chesty but James.

Chic, slim Sloane rangers slouch along the pavement in the latest winter fashion - hip slung mini shorts with leopard skin patterned tights finished off with calf length boots.

Through to the food halls of Harrods with every delicacy from everywhere. Poultry, venison, cheese and chocolate, wines, oils and vinegars, with hungry shoppers and society hostesses salivating as they compile the next delicious menu.

Back on the street outside a bored rastafarian holds a sign encouraging shoppers to lunch at MacDonalds. Today’s papers say their attempt at healthy salads has failed and losing half a billion in profits, they are reverting to the fat full, but profitable, burger.

On to Racine, the French bistro at 239 Brompton Road, for luinch with a friend from university who I haven’t seen for thirty-four years, since we parted at the Gremlin drive-in restaurant in Salisbury. The olive oil was Spanish and rancid. Merde. The filet delicious, garnished with pepper not béarnaise, with the Bouncing Buddha’s in mind.

Home to East Sheen, stopping at Valentinas on the way for fresh ciabatta, tomatoes, basil and brie for dinner – washed down with prosecco.

Thursday and the sun is shining so I continue with the Monopoly Board. Royal Blue is Piccadilly Circus, guarded by Eros and where the 39 Steps is showing at the Criterion – its 25 to the toilet. Digital cameras and camera phones record time spent at Eros’s feet as classic London taxi’s and double-decker buses ferry their fares through the busy circus. The famous Café Royal in Green Regent Street is flanked by the American Bar Cheers, and of course MacDonalds. Yellow Coventry Street steers off at a tangent – how the colours of that capitalist monoploy game stick in the memory.

Down to Pall Mall, home of bankers and clubs – colourless, constrained as business and lunch is conducted behind massive oak doors guarded by liveried footmen. On the corner of the Mall and St James Street hangs the sign of Rothmans of Pall Mall, profits from smoking diminishing by the day, the brand lives on. Around the corner encased in leaded windows framed in solid oak is the Berry Brothers and Rudd, Specialist Wine Merchants – Established in the 17th Century – the sign states in mockery of its contemporary competition. The window display is Krug. Next door is Lock and Co, Milliners with bowler hats and trilbies displayed at the right angle. Completing the trilogy is John Lobb, Bootmaker to the Queen – By Appointment of course - and to the Duke and Prince.

Bentleys and Rolls Royces whisper around the corners, driven by black suited chauffeurs with starched shirts and fixed smiles. Middle eastern magnates recline on leather on the back seats, elbows supported by armrests, hands holding mobile phones transmitting business across the world.

And there walks the quintessential London business man, alone in pin stripe suit, bowler and neatly folded black umbrella – he comes from the direction of the Palace – perhaps he has been to see the Queen.

Here comes the band marching down St James Place, warm in grey greatcoats, playing Rule Britannia as they bring the guards back from changing. Relief from standing in the cold, impassive, unflinching as a never-ending throng of tourists use every antic to elicit a smile or provoke a twitch, all to be recorded on their flashcards.

Bobbies on horses keep the sightseers at bay, as the band changes tune and marches by with an aerial protruding from an anonymous grey box on the back of one of the bandsmen. A thought flashes, has karaoke breached the greatest tradition, are the bandsmen miming to the tune of the karaoke box. Just a thought.

And from all this grandeur and tradition to the purpose of the visit to Pall Mall – to meet my great friend at the Oxbridge Club. No 71 (not just 71), Pall Mall. As I approach the oak doors I see a bishop in his purple shirt and gold chain enter the Club, and with amusement notice I am passing Angel Lane.

Through the door to the inevitable anteroom where non-members must wait for their hosts. I inform the concierge that I am meeting Mr Nick, how easily one slips involuntarily into convention when surrounded by centuries of tradition. At least I didn’t add Esquire!

I waited by the fire in leather chairs watching the passing parade of ageing alumni, grey haired, spectacled, conversing in muted tones.

My friend arrived and after a gin and tonic we retired to the dining room to enjoy claret, guinea fowl with cranberry sauce and traditional vegetables. Thanksgiving in England – turkey was the roast of the day. We continued our conversation after a pause of over 30 years, swapping stories of our lives and of others long forgotten and now missed.

We retire again to the smoking room, collecting coffee dispensed by a machine which tested the ingenuity of the best of British brains. So much so that a waitress was stationed close by to give instructions. Then to the port, a 1977 vintage no less, to bring back the memories of late night learned discussions over decanters of Christopher’s Cristobel so many years ago.

After lunch it was back to the Piccadilly Line to Hammersmith and the 209 to East Sheen. A coke can rolled noisily across the floor of the bus as we frequently changed direction, and an empty MacDonalds packet was tucked under the seat in front, reminders of the different worlds that are forever England.

An Oil as Pure as Virgin Snow

Always when I land in Spain
I feel like I am living life again
Sure that in a previous incarnation
Iberia was my ancient home nation

Sitting in the high speed train
Streaking across the rain soaked plain
Olives as far as the eye can see
On red earth a silver filigree

My heart in love with olive oil
My head thinking of the daily toil
My heart soon begins to cry
Seeing the result of the summer dry

Rows of olive trees leafless and dead
The growers’ hope of income shed
Another year of lost toil and hope
I often wonder how they cope

In the cities consumers buy the oil
Heedless of the farmer’s love and toil
Concerned only with package and price
Changing to a cheaper oil in a trice

Little do the users know
That a death painful and slow
Is their remit to those that grow
An oil as pure as virgin snow

So more determined I will be
To promote the essence of the olive tree
And wherever I travel and want to go
Will put the best extra virgin olive oil on show

To Kalamata by Bus

2009

After a fairly harrowing introduction to Greece it was time to go my first destination – Kalamata.

Harrowing because the delay in the flight from Madrid meant that I arrived in Athens at rush hour and being driven by a demonstrative Greek taxi driver in peak hour traffic at dusk is harrowing. Then there was the haggling over the fare; the meter said 24 Euros, he said 45. All the tourist books and the helpful man at the tourist desk at the airport had warned this would happen – but one hopes it won’t. It did, and after much remonstrating it came down to 35, which with the tolls, luggage charges and a tip was closer to reasonable.

Then there was the close attention from a distinctly shifty young character in Monastiraki Square who I managed to shake off by heading towards a parked van full of police armed with machine guns.

Things could only get better and they did.

The evening ended on a good note when I ducked into a very reasonable Taverna, had a glass of raki and some good Greek food. I loved the way the cutlery was in a draw in the table and you could use it as required – very practical!

Up early the next morning and off to the imaginatively named Terminal A bus terminal. The travel book warned that it was ‘not a good introduction to Athens’. I disagree, at 6 am it was as good an introduction to Athens as you could get, the real Athens, not the one trotted out by the tour guides.

After the inevitable haggle with the taxi driver one enters this space which has no trimmings – dirty white walls, a series of unimaginative ticket booths with destinations in arial fount, a few banks of chairs, and clocks that give different times. Through here Greece passes. The young are here in hip clothes with their ipods and the old and grey in black struggling with their baggage. The lottery salesman carries his pole festooned with bulldog clips holding tickets, a grey haired woman shuffles along trying to sell packets of tissues, a well dressed businessman strides through carrying his computer.

Then to the buses, there are over 60 stations in a vast shed with little or no direction. There are no boards telling you which bus is going to where, from which dock and when. Only by asking various passers-by if they spoke English could one eventually find the right bus.

I was allocated seat No1 – great I thought, window seat at the front with lots of legroom. No chance, window seat yes, but in their effort to cram as many relatively short Greeks into every bus on the oversubscribed Kalamata route, they reduced leg space to a minimum. The very nice young girl offered to change but I was wedged in and daren’t move.  Then there started the bargaining over changing seats, a woman wanted to sit in the front and tried every ruse to get a seat - my inability to speak Greek was used to advantage. She was unhappy, so her very mobile arms and hands seemed to say.

Everyone settled down and we were off. The girl next to me crossed herself seven times with Hail Mary’s and the old man across the aisle took out his worry beads and clicked away. Great I thought, this is going to be quite a trip. And so it was.

I soon learned that if you are driving the hooter has three functions – to greet your friends in passing vehicles (and there are many), to hoot to warn other drivers who you assume are going to do the wrong thing, and to hoot at drivers who do the wrong thing.

Other lessons were – double white lines mean you can overtake, overtaking round corners is permitted as long as you can see there is no oncoming traffic and finally, whoever gives way last has right of way.

All this delightful irreverence to most traffic convention, mixed with occasional magnanimity makes one completely forget the cramped discomfort of the seat and enjoy the ride.

From Athens we headed west along the coast to Elefsina, Megara, and then turned south at Corinth and headed for Tripoli. All the names stirred memories of Greek history classes at school and reminded me that this country was the home of some of history’s greatest philosophers, warriors and writers. I began to see things from a different perspective, and shedding my conservative well ordered Anglo-Saxon heritage for a while, began to appreciate everything around me.

The countryside to Tripoli was less than attractive. Generally rocky hills with the lower slopes cultivated with olive trees and the flatter valleys used for annual cropping. Unkempt would be a description I would use to describe the villages, and the agricultural land – judging by Australian standards. If something doesn’t have to be moved or knocked down – why do so, the same applying to mowing and general manicuring of farmland and gardens. To be fair, recent bad frost had prematurely ended the colourful autumn vegetation and added to the lacklustre impression.

The olive groves were well tended and in fruit. There were also many severely pruned trees which I later discovered were mulberries. As we got closer to Kalamata, orange trees became part of the horticulture.

From Tripoli the landscape became more interesting with fairly high mountain passes revealing large deep valleys covered with olive trees and cultivated land. There was even a sign to a ski resort.

The road was lined with crypts or shrines in memory of those killed in accidents and the number made me understand the need for the Hail Marys and the incessantly clicking worry beads. Every so often the beads would be swung around like a bolero and I had visions of the cord breaking and the released beads expending their stored energy by pole-axing the driver who was only a metre away. I wondered whether there was a discount for roadside crypts in bulk.

From Tripoli we traveled to the deep valley of Megalopoli which has a huge power station spewing steam and smoke high above the carpet of olive trees. Another high mountain pass brought us to the long valley that ends in Kalamata and the sea. Again at the north end of the valley is a huge thermal power station, somewhat incongruous with the olive trees that stretch south to the sea.

Megalopoli on the Road to Kalamata

The single lane road down the valley seems to be the arterial system carrying the lifeblood of Kalamata which is the capital of the province of Messinia. In come the materials for everyday life – typical consumer goods. Out go olives, either as the world famous black Kalamata olives from the Kalamon variety, or as olive oil from the Koroneikj variety. For oil the olives are harvested green and relatively unripe to avoid the frost. As a result the olive oil is green and pungent and to the uninitiated an acquired taste.

Harvest for oil has already begun – by hand. The old wood branches are cut from the tree and the olives harvested from them by beating them with sticks.  The olives left on the tree on younger wood are hand-raked onto mats. The method is traditional, slow and labour intensive. And it works here, now. However, one has to wonder whether it will survive the onslaught of intensive groves and mechanised harvesting at a quarter of the cost.

The harvest for black table olives – also by hand picking – starts later.

The bus arrives in Kalamata where the noisiest and most immovable traffic jam I have ever been in occurs in one of the narrow main streets. The problem being cars parked on both sides, a narrow street, two buses going in each direction, a concrete truck, a couple of large delivery vans, many scooters and every one with a hooter.

Add to this that some of the truck drivers are mates and have a chat while their vehicles pass so close that a rat couldn’t squeeze between, but scooters were trying. The drivers not chatting directly were talking into mobiles, as were a couple of those on scooters.

And everyone was hooting and gesticulating and offering solutions. Somehow, sometime later, everyone inched forward and escaped the gridlock. Now I understand the hotel clerk in Athens being perplexed when I asked him when rush hour was – he replied there isn’t one but the traffic is always heavy!

Finally we arrived at the leoforio or bus station and it was time for another taxi ride to the hotel. More traffic jams and the driver commented on how bad Greek drivers are!

We arrived at the hotel which is on the picturesque seafront about 5km from the city centre. No haggling with the driver this time – I told him what I was paying. I am starting to get the tempo and temperament of Greece.

My room looks out over the bay which is the tip of the Messinian Gulf. High, rocky mountains climb to the east and west and the sea is quite tranquil. It is the first time I have touched the Mediterranean, and I like it. There is a long walk along the pebble beach to the port and along the way are many reasonable tavernas and restaurants which I am looking forward to exploring.

Kalamata

I am pleased I came to Kalamata, which gives its name of the world’s best table olive. The people are friendly and it is remote enough not to be spoilt by dependency on tourism. Tomorrow I visit the olive industry, on which the local economy depends, as the guest of the Ministry of Agriculture and will learn a lot.

On Thursday it is back to Athens by bus. My seat number is 13, maybe I should buy a rosary and say a few Hail Marys.

The Bull and the Boot

Beautiful Sevilla with narrow streets
Lined with tables of tapas and other eats
Senoritas mincing between the chairs
Of admiring hombres and their senora’s glares

The sweet scent of orange flows from trees
Buzzing with the sound of busy bees
Children play in traditional dresses
Glistening hair bouncing in tresses

Bands play all along the street
Classic with flamenco a different beat
Quartets and quintets play treble and bass
As couples stroll at a romantic pace

It is Corpus Christi a fiesta date
Revelry in the streets till very late
The bars full till overflowing
Vino tinto setting many cheeks aglowing

The day is over the night is spent
Back to work a little bent
Time to leave this gracious city
By plane to fly to nearby Italy

Plane is late and luggage slow
Catch the train in Bologna now
Train is crowded and carriages closed
When we’ll arrive heaven knows

Toilets few with queues many
Passengers needing to spend a penny
Glum faces wait till the flush
Brings their relief in a rush

Poppies red of Flander’s fame
Unlike the dead to grow again
Fill the fields next to grain
Blurred from the Modena train

Gracious Modena is here now
Luggage offloaded with a sweating brow
Taxi rank empty a while
Passengers waiting in single file

Two nations move at a different pace
Spain mixing pleasure with grace
Italy is much more about style
With everything taking a little while

Beauty is in the Voice

I’m not blind
I can see
That for those who are blind
There is no ugliness

Beauty is in the voice
The words carefully chosen
Colours are their choice
A matter of perception

Curves can be straight
Lines are the edge
Sightless is their fate
Insight their pledge

Their stick is white
Their touch gentle
I see their plight
They feel my mantle

The world is theirs
To paint as they wish
A palette of airs
To blow with a swish

They move without fear
Blind to danger
Senses acutely aware
Of the vibes of a stranger 

The Cape of Good Hope

2009

Leaving the parched continent of Australia we flew to the dark continent and reached the Capo de Bon Esperenza, beyond the Atlas Pillars, the Cape of Good Hope.  

Cape Town sprawls in the shadow of the picturesque Table Mountain, the flat monolith that is the sentinel over this contrast of modernity and basic improvisation, affluence and poverty.

Main Road where I am staying runs between the mountain and Table Bay, in the lee of Robben Island where Mandela achieved greatness through incarceration. It is the artery feeding the affluent suburbs of the west, passing through the seedy suburbs of Sea Point and Green Point.

In the bay ships stacked to the skies with battered containers head for the harbour, top heavy, unwieldy and sea scarred. Bloated liquefied gas ships with their spherical tanks rock in the swell, connected to shore by looms of pipes, like an umbilicus delivering their life blood.

On Main Road, boisterous battle-scarred taxi vans carry their human cargo. Hooting and whistling their way to repetitive destinations, touting for passengers, engorging then disgorging their human fare.

The latest models of Mercedes, VW, Toyota and BMW with personal number plates cruise the road, driven by the businessmen and women, public servants who emerge through spiked cast iron gates from homes screened by high security walls. The rest walk, or succumb to the exhortations of the taxi touts.

Patrons earnest in conversation or reading the Cape Times sip cappuccino’s and latte’s at Giovanni’s, 103 Main Road, They are all white. The deli is stocked with the latest delicacies from Europe supplemented with the best South African produce. An ageing Afrikaaner sells fresh vegetables and herbs from a canvas covered alcove. There are sweet potatoes, pumpkins, cabbages and lettuces wilting in the sun. A pile of fresh dog turd festers on the pavement next to the pots of sage and thyme.

Beggars straddle the pavement steps away, pestering the pedestrians, earnest in survival, their tanned and creased grey bearded faces testament to the cruel deprivation of their lives. Their home is the street, their bed in a roofless alcove, sheltered from the wind. I don’t know where they go when it rains – today it is pouring so perhaps I will find out.

The pulsating beat of reggae mesmerises the patrons at Granny Feelgoods, a café and internet café, advertised by a plate, a cup and a mouse. Conversations across the table or cyberspace, wireless, broadband and analogue mapping the journey of technology in this out of the way place. The patrons are all white.

A walk down Main Road to Sea Point is a study of the fragile fabric of southern African life. The pavement is cracked by the roots of the ubiquitous Jacaranda tree with its purple flowers colouring the grey relief of buildings and security walls. Illegally parked cars take up half the pavement, leaving the rest for pedestrians and hawkers, prostitutes and taxi touts.

An ageing bow-legged bag lady pushes her supermarket trolley packed with her possessions. On the corner of St George Street, the dusky streetwalkers in tight jeans offer their wares near the sign directing travellers to the 40 Winks Guesthouse. The adjacent wall is daubed with an advertisement for a ’hop on and hop off’ bus service and a billboard offers the hottest property in town for sale.

The street sweeper carefully gathers the debris with his yard broom outside a shop, and cleans the tiled shopfront with detergent from a bucket made from half a plastic drum with the handle of interlaced 12-guage fencing wire. The blue uniformed parking inspector stands nearby negotiating with drivers and handing out tickets from the latest hand-held computer. The fruit hawker stacks his boxes into a makeshift street counter and carefully displays the meager offering of pineapples and apples so any blemishes are hidden.

Office workers stride towards their white collar jobs, computer cases slung over their shoulders, income assured, confidence radiating. Whites in white collars, blacks in blue collars or rags.

The newspaper billboards announce the issues of today; the fear of interest rate rises, taxi strikes, political tussles and maternity leave for schoolgirls. The latter highlighting the promiscuity that has brought the level of HIV infection to a crippling 25% across the nation. A whole generation will be decimated with profound effect on the family and economic structure that maintains stability.

There is something missing from the streetscape, sirens – police, ambulances and fire engines. Is this the manifestation of collapsing infrastructure with burgeoning crime and the emphasis on the needs of an emerging population being more important than saving the dying? The objectivity of poverty replacing the subjectivity of affluence as the country slides into the post-apartheid era?

A few blocks away from Main Road, cranes steeple over the waterfront retail development. Acres of shed-like buildings house a vast shopping mall offering everything. Supported by expensive restaurants, wine shops, marimba street bands the waterfront bustles with tourists and their local hosts. No beggars here, it seems sanitized and the shoppers are white, the shop assistants and salespeople black or coloured.

The Rainbow nation is what they call South Africa, a semantic attempt to include all the shades of skin colour that are its people. Black, white, coloured are the primary colours of this rainbow, and they still seem separate as they are in that trick of light. Perhaps merging along the fringes but still remain substantially in their block of colour.

Sixteen or so years after apartheid changes are apparent with most of the blue collar and many of the white collar jobs being held now by blacks and coloureds.

But the whites generally seem to have the money and the separation is socio-economic rather than by law. Apparently there is a rapidly growing middle class of black and coloured people but I haven’t seen many of them.

It seems that the Rainbow nation is on the brink of a storm. The pot of gold as elusive as the myth. The clouds gathering are formed by the sweat of toil and frustration of those whose expectation is to live the life of the affluent blacks and whites. To fulfill the promises of change that were the slogans of the immediate post-apartheid era.

The storm gathers in the shanty towns and the dark clouds cast a shadow over everything. Occasionally the sun breaks through the clouds and bathes everything in golden sunshine and all seems well. The clouds close and grow and the storm will come, as surely as similar storms have rolled down Africa to this last bastion of colonial dominance.

The Cape of Good Hope was the name given by early European explorers to this Southern tip of the African Continent. Another name given by seafarers who battled the meeting of the great Atlantic and Pacific Oceans was ‘The Cape of Storms’.

Which will it be?