Goats and Oranges

SO, we’ve thrown another twist into our travels, quite literally in fact, as to get to access our current location one must travel a very steep, curvy road down the hill (which we, of course, mostly choose to travel on bikes, at night, with our trusty headlamps which, fortunately, are not quite bright enough to remind us that there is no guardrail around these corners) to a little goat farm called Monte Robledos, which, because it’s at the bottom of a valley, of course means ‘mountain of the oaks.”  Don’t worry, no baa-aa-aad news to report, just a bit of cheesiness, as we’re taking a bit of a workation from Finca Buenvino, and spending a few weeks producing ‘quesos artisinales.’

We learned of this small cheese operation– which is about 10km from the Chesterton’s and 5km down from Aracena) from another American WWOOFer who we happened to meet on the street during one of the many Semana Santa processions. He gave us their telephone number in case we ever wanted to pay them a visit. Things at the Chesterton’s were going fine, but we had started to get a bit too comfortable, a bit antsy to learn new things and speak more Spanish, and a bit worried that the Chestertons might soon tire of our constant presence, or at least of bread, which Sam the Sour-Doughboy was (and is) making almost daily. J We will go back to the Chestertons before we leave Spain, but for now we are thoroughly enjoying our stay at Monte Robledos.

As we’re working with a Spanish Spanish family (Maria Jesus, Rafael, Rafael Jr., Manuel, y Miguel) as opposed to a British Spanish family (Sam, Jeannie, Charlie, Grania and Jago), we have not only been able to immerse ourselves in curds and whey, but in the Spanish, or should I say ‘Andalu-th” language. And, when we mentioned how hot it’s supposed to be this coming week (high 80’s F), and that this was pretty much the hottest our summers in New England ever get, they showed us to a small reservoir they had made in which we are also welcome to immerse ourselves. After shooing away a few pigs, Sam gladly took a dip, but although it’s not the grossest pond I’ve ever seen—certainly cleaner than the Bates ‘puddle,’—the heat has not quite yet driven me to brave the muck and murk to wallow in the watering hole.

Although some of our enjoyment of the past couple of weeks here stems from obvious and logical sources, such as the fact that this is a very warm, helpful and enthusiastic family with lots of knowledge to share, other aspects of our contentment here are in some ways rather paradoxical. I can almost see the grimaces on the faces of my busy readers as I write this (although I guess those of you who are TOO busy won’t have time to read this), but I think part of our satisfaction comes from the fact that we work hard, and a lot, almost all day, almost every day. What?! This makes you happy?! Well, I can’t say that the work itself is particularly intriguing; fatiguing is more the adjective I’d use to describe today’s work of flipping over and wiping the shelves of thousands of little round cheeses. Nor do I even like goat milk or cheese that much. Sam says that this just because I’m not used to it, and that I’d feel this way about cow’s milk, too, if I hadn’t grown up with it, but I maintain that we stuck to cow’s milk for a reason, and the reason MY taste buds provide is that cow’s milk doesn’t contain that at-once sweet and savory essence of goat-butt. (This said, I must admit that goat’s milk is not THAT different from cow’s milk, and I have been drinking it willingly. It’s also supposed to be much better for you, and easier to absorb). So, then why are we feeling more relaxed here? First of all, when we work hard and long, we appreciate NOT working much more. Downtime seems like a luxury—we don’t feel guilty sitting around, even if we’re doing nothing!—and we’re not bored, and for me at least, being bored is much worse than being tired. Also, we are living in a casa which is on the farm, whereas the rest of the family lives in town. This means not only do we have cute baby animals to ogle at, but we are cooking for ourselves (and no, the arrangement of this sentence does not imply that we are cooking baby animals), which is more work, but also more autonomy: something we’ve really been missing this year.

Our cooking has been particularly inspired lately, with help from the oranges and lemons, ripe for the picking, just outside our door, and goats, ripe for the milking, running around everywhere. Both milk and citrus fruit, it turns out, are harder to acquire than they look, however. My first attempt at harvesting oranges was met with spiny resistance: not only do the small branches have thorns, but even the larger, “perfect climbing” branches are be-spiked. So, I thought, “I’ll just pick up those which have already fallen to the ground, as long as they don’t look rotten!” Good plan, except the oranges on the ground, even the ones the ants haven’t invaded, are a bit tooooo sweet…. But, every obstacle is a learning opportunity— now I send Sam to get the oranges!

As for the goats, there are more than 300 of them, most of which need milking, so fortunately there is a milking machine. However, I think someone overheard our rather deflated “Ohhhh, I guess we won’t be learning to milk a goat” sighs– as we rolled up to see the lady goats flaunting their pumps– and decided to teach us some lessons.

Lesson #1: When the machine breaks, you must still milk the goats, because if not the milk can curdle in their udders, and kill them.

Lesson #2: To milk a goat, hold one teat in each hand, and squeeze, it’s that easy!

Lesson #3: If nothing is coming out, and you’re squeezing as hard as you can, keep squeezing… and squeezing…. And squeezing up here, and down there… and twist maybe?…

Lesson #4: Goats kick.

Lesson #5: When you finally get one little, tiny stream of milk out, the goat will kick your bucket over so that you cannot prove you’ve mustered a drop.

Lesson #6: Sam is just better at getting the ladies to put out.

Lesson #7: If all of the goats on the row are milked except the one you’re pleading with, move out of the way and let Rafael milk it—he can do it so fast that the milk froths in the bucket!

Lesson #8: HUGE, full udders are impossible to get a handle on, and therefore nearly impossible to milk unless you’re Rafael (see lesson 7).

Lesson #9: Although you may not contribute more than 1.5 liters to the 120 liters total collected (by 4 milkers including yourself), do not feel too bad: at least the goats you milked seemed to enjoy your gentle massaging more than the others’ vicious tugging, and at least if the goat kicked over your bucket, you didn’t lose much milk.

With all of the lessons we’re learning, I think the most valuable is probably that farming, and especially selling your products to make a living, is a LOT of work. Maria Jesus and her family not only manage the farm and garden, make loads of cheese at least twice a week and turn all the drying cheeses once a day, but they have two small stores/bars in Aracena where they sell their own cheese and pork products as well as other groceries (and where we go to access internet), and go to most of the festivals in Andalucia to try to sell their products at kiosks to make ends meet. She’s really an incredible woman, and for me her ability to juggle all of this work it’s at once inspiring and frustrating. It seems so ridiculous to me that food production is so underpaid and underappreciated—providing good quality and healthy food should be held in such high regard, and yet I feel that it’s taken for granted by so many people who have never done it, and requires SO much time and energy from the few people who are willing to undertake it. That’s not to say it isn’t rewarding— as I’ve mentioned, we feel very satisfied after a long day’s work here—but the rewards certainly aren’t (usually) financial. I just think we should pay a bit more thought to, and also a bit more money to those brave souls who produce the energy we need to survive (especially those who do it efficiently without ruining our environment or health in the process—food produced industrially often contains fewer calories of energy than were burned to produce it, not to mention process, package and ship it, and so to pour more money into this broken system/energy drain is not what I’m endorsing). So hats off to Maria, who’s does all this and is also a mother… another underappreciated and UNpaid position….

Alright, I’ll stop before I alienate any of our constituency with my political views and values. We really need your vote of confidence in our blog, as we don’t want our ratings to drop, and we desperately want to hold on to at least our current 3.6 followers/day. J

I believe we have exactly 4 weeks from today before we will debark in Massachusetts, and I cannot way to make my way back to our ‘old world.’ ‘Till then, know that we’re having lots of fun being cheesy! Hasta pronto!

Getting to know Al-Andalus

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN!” asks our devoted blog reader. “It has been almost a month, and NOTHING!” Well, reader(s… which we hope includes more than just our families), the computer has been broken! And also, we’re in Spain in the spring! Give us a break!

So yes, we’re back in Aracena, home of pata negra jamon, and more importantly, the wonderful Chestertons. We arrived the night after the first day of Semana Santa, which is the week leading up to Easter. It’s a pretty big deal around here, what with the strong Catholic history they’ve got, and for anyone who has seen pictures of Spaniards dressed up colorful KKK outfits, this is that celebration. Somehow, though this attire is very shocking for us Americans the first time we lay eyes on it, it takes only a very short time for it to start to seem rather endearing. The way that they have to hold on to the bottom of their great, sinister, pointy hoods so that the eye-holes stay lined up with their eyes as they shuffle through the streets holding enormous crosses, candles, or gilded staves makes them seem somewhat harmless and clumsy, and one begins to wonder why the KKK thought these outfits would be so scary. I mean, as long as they are dressed in those robes, they certainly aren’t going to be very effective chasing after anyone!

We had a week of watching processions, some which began at 5a.m., which consisted of enormous pasos (big passion of the Christ themed floats) being carted through the streets by forty or so costaleros (anybody from the town with broad shoulders and a desire to hump their 50 kilo share of the paso through the streets for 5 hours or so) and preceded by long parades of pointy-hooded nazarines (penitents). Occasionally the floats stop in the street, and from above a volunteer from the town proceeds to sing a saeta (a religious flamenco lament, which usually goes something like “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, cuuuuuaaaaaantooooo doooooooooloooooooorrrrrrr” drawn out for about 5 minutes). The whole thing was an immense amount of fun, although completely exhausting at the same time, and we weren’t even carrying the gilded floats.

Another relatively new feature to our stay has been the presence of guests at the B&B, which after our very quiet stay here in December makes for an interesting change in pace. With guests the finca is a decidedly different place, with three course meals every night for dinner, constant bustling about to serve up tapas and coffee and tea and cakes, and stoking up the fireplace at just the right time of day so that the guests can sit beside a “leaping flame”. After a few nights of this, Sam Chesterton said to me, “this is what having a B&B is all about, it’s all theat-tah!”

Since we last updated, another momentous event has transpired: Aubrey Nelson has aged another year. She finally caught up to yours truly, and joined the ranks of the 24-year-olds (nearly 25! Crap!). For her birthday, I found her some replacement Crocs (or Hobekys as it were- doubly appreciated as the puppy here has managed to steal and shred her Chaco sandals, may they rest in pieces), and made her a home-made version of the tiramisu ice-cream cake that we devoured for my birthday in the Pyrenees. We also had a delightful dinner with Juan from the Jabugo Jamon factory, and some random Dutch travel agent.

Another noticia is that we did a couple of days of painting on the roof terrace of a friend of the Chesterton’s and earned a few Eurobucks, which we used to take a trip to Granada to celebrate Aubrey’s birthday. Granada is home to La Alhambra, which is an enormous Moorish city/castle, that is probably Spain’s number one tourist attraction (and for good reason… it’s beautiful). Every day 6,000 people are allowed to visit, and tickets to visit are sold in advance. When I went to make our reservation, I discovered that the entire week that we were planning to visit was already sold out. Upon arriving in Granada, however, the proprietors of the hostel where we were staying told us that the Alhambra is always sold out, but that they keep 500 tickets on reserve for people who don’t plan ahead. In order to get one of these tickets, it is best to queue up an hour or 45 minutes before the ticket windows open. So after our first night in Granada, having been up listen to Flamenco in a little dive in a back alley until some odd hour of the morning, we hauled ourselves out of bed and got out the door by 6:45 a.m., and were in line at the Alhambra by 7:05. “Alright!” we thought “We’re nearly at the front of the line! We’re sure to get one of those 500 tickets.” Then along came a security guard. “Hoy, no hay visita,” he intoned, today the Alhambra is closed. What? They can’t do this to us! Why? “I don’t know, there’s someone here…” he mumbled, “it has something to do with Carlos V” (a long dead Spanish king). We were skeptical, and hung around until we were sure that he wasn’t just making this up to thin out the line, but it turned out to indeed be closed, and for some reason we weren’t invited to this special event.

So we needed a plan B. Fortunately, it was still only 8 a.m. and we had plenty of time to formulate plan B, which is how, by noon, we found ourselves in the little town of Güejar Sierra, only a 2 euro round-trip bus fare outside of Granada, and directly at the base of the beautiful Sierra Nevada. They even had free candies and hiking maps at the town-hall, and by following one of the trails indicated on the map we ended up at a Spanish Civil War bunker, perched high atop a mountain, overlooking a beautiful reservoir below. We felt on top of the world, quipping about how nature’s splendor outshone any dumb Moorish palace, as we reached the far end of the hiking loop which was so neatly marked out on the map. So… there’s the road we see on the map, and here’s the trail we just came from, and so the return part of this trail should be…. straight through those spiny bushes, around the bulls, across the 12 razor-wire fences and…. we chose to walk back on a road. We stopped at one point to show the map to some locals and ask where we went wrong, but they were just as puzzled as us: “There aren’t any trails there, es todo privado.” We sighed, shook our travel-weary heads, and figured that it probably had something to do with Carlos V, as well. Spain is lovely, but as hiking enthusiasts, it will be nice to be back home where “trail crew” is a choice for a summer job.

We returned to the hotel, had a dinner of tapas out on the town, and got ready for another early morning. Luckily, on our second attempt, we got into the Alhambra, only to see that we weren’t allowed to visit the palace until 1pm, and our “morning” ticket was only good until 2pm. As we approached what appeared to be the junction between the palace gardens and the palace itself, a guard checked our ticket, saying “Ahh, not until 1 o’clock,” and ushered us toward the gardens. We looked at our map, puzzled, as it seemed absurd that while we would have a good 5 hours to walk around about an acre of gardens, the walled castle, which seemed at least 4 times the size, would need to be explored in under an hour. Once again cursing Spanish planning, after a couple hours of playing tag in the hedge mazes, we decided to leave the Alhambra for an early lunch, and then come back later for our palace time-slot. We were feeling very proud of our time management as we slipped across the bridge toward the palace at 12:50pm… only to immediately discover that the palace was only one very small element of the walled city on that side of the bridge, and that we could have accessed any of the various other buildings, museums and exhibits all morning if we had only crossed over! So, as seems to be our style this year, we decided to overstay the expiration hour on our tickets, and just continue walking around post-2pm hoping we wouldn’t be deported discovered. Somehow, our tickets still worked at most of the exhibits, and in retrospect, despite Aubrey’s nervousness each time we saw a museum guard, this was the perfect time to be touring the Alhambra, because most of the “morning” ticket people had already left, and even the speediest (read: Chinese) tour groups from the afternoon hadn’t yet caught up. This meant two things: first, we had the place mostly to ourselves, and could take our time without feeling claustrophobic, and secondly, our photo quality was greatly enhanced by the lack of 12 or 17 ladies in pink raincoats contributing themselves to the vista.

Our final night in Granada was topped off by a delicious dinner in a Lebanese restaurant, and the next day we headed back to Aracena, stopping to see the Feria of Sevilla (basically like a giant county fair, Spanish style, which means lots of women dress up, or at least dressing their children up, in Flamenco dresses) on the way. We were rather disappointed with the Feria in Sevilla, but promised we were “just there at the wrong time,” (i.e. we missed out on the hour when everyone’s drunk and dancing), but not to worry, there are plenty more festivals to come.

In fact, it’s the beginning of festival season in Spain, and for those who are so inclined (as many Spaniards are) there is at least one Romeria or fiesta every weekend from now until the end of August. We were informed by the Chestertons that you tend to arrive at one of these celebrations, and you are immediately invited to picnics with every Spanish family you pass, offered wine and beer, and basically made one of the gang. We arrived at the romeria of Valdelarco after having biked/walked from Buenvino equipped with a picnic, but it became immediately clear that we were not to be made feel like one of the gang. Maybe it was our smiling faces or our little backpacks (or most likely our blindingly blond hair and plaid shirt, respectively), but it was apparently just a bit too obvious that we weren’t Spanish, and we received only dubious looks, and grudging “Holas.” But we took our picnic regardless, and enjoyed the ambiance of flamenco wailing, drum and fife players, and people on horseback circling about offering young girls rides on the rumps of their animals. Maybe next time I’ll borrow someone’s bullfighter outfit, and we’ll find Aubrey a flamenco dress; that will probably make at least me fit in better!

All in all things have sort of held an even keel here in Andalucia this past month. The wildflowers and the sunsets (around 9:30pm) have brought spectacular bursts of color to our days, and although it was cold and rainy for a big chunk of April, now it’s suddenly August, and we’ve been swimming almost every evening this week. We’ve been cooking quite frequently, making lots of desserts and bread mostly, but also had Jewish (but actually Morrocan, it turns out) and Mexican nights where we cooked three course meals for the family, and tried out new recipes.

As far as work it has been the usual assortment of odd jobs, but the major project so far has been pool renovation. We’ve been getting the “Infinity Pool” changing rooms and showers scraped and painted in anticipation of the summer season and starting the process of the restoring a spring-fed pool that was the first structure that the family built on the property 20 some-odd years ago. Despite lots of good times, we’re starting to get very excited to go home, as it has been a long few months whizzing around Europe. And, assuming that Iceland doesn’t belch out another cloud of smoke and ash, we might be doing that in only a few (five, to be precise) weeks. I’m certainly ready. Miss you all, and see you soon(ish)!