David Wiseman, October 2022
Sometimes it is simply necessary to accept that you were wrong. Your fears were unfounded, your judgement was incorrect and your expectations have been exceeded. No bad thing and this was the happy predicament I found myself in yesterday.
I had chosen the relatively remote mountain village of Ohanes, high up around at 1000 metres (3,300 feet) in the eastern Alpujarras as a place to locate myself, when I wanted to get away from my ‘home city’ of three years, Almeria. A place of solitude, of tranquilo, a place of quiet with pure clean air, away from the constant bustle of the capital city of the Province. A place to walk all day in its uplands of scrubby bushes, pine forests and holm oaks, to eagerly sup from one of many fonts scattered about on hot summer days. My plan was set in motion when I rented a small one bedroom casa in a pleasant Andalucian complex (el Castanar) close to the village, to see if I liked it enough to perhaps buy it next summer.
Ohanes suffers from the very real problem that faces many pueblos in Andalucia of depopulation; at one stage in 1877 with 3,000 residents to its name, by 2020 it was down to around 500, as generations of young people progressively moved away to be closer to the more modern amenities of cities like Almeria to raise their families. In fact the Spanish property site Idealista had 72 places for sale in little Ohanes alone and frankly it needs buyers to fill them up. Yes, true, I would be but a temporary resident there and an expat to boot – but it seems to me even that’s better than dozens of unloved & uncared empty houses (but I’m open to discussing it).
I had rented a suitable casa then, with stunning views south across the mountains, down the valley to Canjayar and further southeast towards the big city; on a clear day a smudge of the sea is even visible. Visits to the few local bars had yielded basic but pleasant enough places with a few locals inside and limited tapas choices. But that was fine: I wasn’t about to be complaining, as it’s pretty much as I’d expected. The locals were certainly pleasant enough and not too obviously negative to my English face and stammering Spanish, as I’d half expected. So all that given, it was a good start to a potentially new mountain life.
However, I’d also come across a group of mainly gay men at the recent Almerian Pride events (which I wrote about here) calling itself ‘Marymontana’ and which I’d initially misread as ‘Mary Montanas’ on their publicity material and banner (‘mary’ being an old but affectionate affectation taken up by gay men some decades ago, when describing each other). I was wrong of course: it was Mar y Montana (sea and mountains). They hiked (senderismo in Spanish), and played beach games in the mid summer when walking was impractical in the Andalucian desert clime. I decided to tag along one day to see if I could both survive the pace, communicate well enough and be accepted as an English expat in what was a local group. The first walk I could eventually make was in late October and when I saw it was scheduled to start and finish up in Ohanes, my new found mountain home, it became hard to resist. When a friend of a friend (Hola Carlos y Antonio!) offered a lift there and back as well it was hard to find a reason not to tag along and give it a try.
So the day dawned bright and sunny and we made good time from the capital; the last seven kilometres of the drive being simply one steep switchblade of a road, as it rapidly ascends 500 metres up towards the whitewashed pueblo blanco: a tidy bright clump from afar, in reality a narrow hotch-potch of winding calles, steep alley steps and a few sleepy cats. We parked outside and walked on into the centre, where I could see a gaggle of assorted gay men were already congregating, chatting, laughing; spilling out across the narrow street, with beso greetings and hugs en masse, and it seemed we found ourselves right by the ‘Bar Patry’. It soon transpired the plan was to go in for quick desayuno, breakfast. After my experience of the sleepy bars innards before, I wasn’t entirely sure how forty gay men descending en masse into its inner peace and quiet at that hour would be received. My mind raced back to the experiences my old walking group ‘GAYSWAG’ in Sussex had had, in the past, in the last few decades as we entered Sussex village pubs. Being told were weren’t wanted, relegated to the outside tables or a one place being sung ‘YMCA’ at, all suddenly flashed through my mind. And then I actually had to live here as well?
I needn’t have worried. We were soon all quickly served and sitting together up on the terraza upstairs, taking in the early morning sunshine. Excited animated conversation ensued and I stopped worrying and just accepted the fact that so many gay men were sitting in my local bar and the world hadn’t actually stopped. I was rapidly introduced to about a dozen men, who names I quickly forgot as they were shot at me in rapid succession: Rafael’s, Miguel’s, Antonio’s, Victor’s, Franz, Tomas’s and Jose’s. I realised too there were a number of men from South America: countries such as Venezuela, Paraguay and Columbia. For one thing it’s easy for us Europeans to forget about much of Spain, is that expats across from South America usually far outnumber our European counterparts. Each has their own localised version of Spanish and each has had to learn the new cadences present in the old Castillian dialect along with all the local differences that Andalucians have added to it, adding layer upon layer of dialects, meanings, sounds and symbolism to the ‘native’ Spanish.
We eventually set out after further animated talking in the narrow street and followed the track I’d already walked by myself in recent months, up into the scrub & forested uplands. It was all uphill for a time but conversation flowed as people caught up with each other, a mix of news, gossip and a few splashes of high camp. I was slightly worried that with so many people on such scree grazed paths someone would fall and break something but no, there were no incidents, as we strode ever upwards.
We stopped for a packed lunch at a waterfall up around 1500 metres (4,900ft) and there were more photos taken, high fives, group photos and selfies. I liked the sense from the group that this was something entirely normal, natural and fun. Yes, of course you would find forty gay guys halfway up a mountain in Ohanes in late October, Why ever not? I suppose part of this came from still feeling a little ex-coviddy in terms of social events but the surprise was I perhaps hadn’t expected it in rural Andalucia. I realised my feelings are to some extent born from a different age that I still find hard to really shake off; a kind of ‘do we dare do this’? Yes, I’ve wandered round Sussex with a group of gay men regularly for the last twenty years doing much the same thing yet here it feels more edgy to me. I’m really not quite sure why that’s the case though, maybe the sense of being ‘an alien’ is heightened here. It gave me food for thought though along with a strong emotional charge, something akin to thinking that it’s ok even in this little village to be yourself, to be open. And not closed. And that openness went with the openness of the terrain too, of exposure. I tried hard to get to the root of this feeling as I was walking along but I’m still not entirely sure, even yet, that I have. I think that there’s something buried deep inside that still feels it needs ‘liberating’, even after nearly fifty years. I remembered back to the nineties, when an old flame, David had insisted we could walk along the street holding hands and that it felt unbelievably, completely, exposing. And yet liberating. And I think I haven’t done it for so long I had closed myself off to it.
So given this introspection I found I had to pull myself back into the ‘here and now’ on the walk, realising this was entirely normal for many of the guys around me and this was all too likely me just showing my age. Because god, I do feel old sometimes!
Eventually we arrived back at the village, with everyone more or less intact and no broken bones, sprains or similar. I’d already heard that with this group there was usually a social stop after the walk itself, so wasn’t surprised when we all trooped into the village’s other bar, Mesón ‘Los Casteles’ (sitting right next to the church). This is an entirely more spacious affair but we went to the terraza outside and sat in a long rows along tables. Lists were made up of what people wanted and brought to us by the bar’s colourful owner, whom I really want to call ‘Lola’ but I don’t actually know her name. An older man patiently and with good humour continuously brought out plates and plates of tapas.. piled with hunks of bread with grilled pork meat inside (it’s called ‘Secreto’ here) and hefty chunks of tortilla. The conversation flowed and much liquid refreshment was imbibed. We were made to feel a little bit special, and something in me was very happy that we had ended up there and were accepted so readily. That my choice, Ohanes, was going to be ‘ok’ after all.
We had to all play a little game, which I admit I had not expected! Tell your name, age, home town and job and one thing you like about the group. Each was received by a round of applause. When it eventually came to my turn I tried to explain, in halting Spanish, how important to me the walk with the group had been and that it had really touched my heart. More applause, so I hope they got it.
After a few hours resting weary legs, it was time to leave and head back to Almeria. With the sun setting behind us I felt tired but my heart was singing. Singing about the mountains and their particular sound of music but also about how very, very good sometimes it simply feels just to be accepted for whom we are. Even in tiny Ohanes.
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