He'll live here forever, Part 1

He is the first thing I see when I stumble onto the landing, gasping for air, after an all-too-ardous climb in the Andalusian sun. I hear German, lots of German, children's voices and the occasional parental warning, but José is all I see. He is an older man, 5'6" or 5'7", lean and tan. He is balanced against a rock, half sitting, half standing. Arms crossed over his chest, face blank. Silent. Looking past him I spot the cave entrance, blocked by a wrought iron gate.

Since his only reaction to my triumphant arrival is a quick nod in response to my breathless Buenas, I follow the German voices. On the other side of the landing I find a ticket office (closed) and a German family hanging out in a shaded picnic area.

Ever the driven American, I head back to José.

¿Para ver la cueva? How do I see the cave?

He beams (translation: "What do you know, this one speaks Spanish!") and throws me 4 words.

Cuando hay un grupito.
When there's a little group.

Uncertain why 4 Germans, a driven American and the Scandinavian couple who have just arrived behind me don't yet comprise un grupito, I claim the rock across from José.

Meanwhile, the German boy, an impressively fearless spirit, swings on tree branches, climbs sheer vertical rocks, slides down the hand rail protecting him from a 2000 foot fall, and generally leads his younger sister toward oblivion. (I am simultaneously terrified and impressed. If he makes it to 21, this kid's going to be somebody to know, I think to myself.)

"No fear", I say to José, nodding toward the boy.

With those words I discover the best investment a wandering new Spanish speaker can make: every word I toss at José yields paragraphs of great stuff. I get back so much more than I put in! This is wonderful!

"¡Qué crío es ese! Before you got here he was playing with a viper. Vipers are bad for críos. Well, vipers are bad for anybody. Vipers kill críos."

The sinister tone of those last 3 words sends a chill down my spine. Perched on my little piece of cave, surrounded by holes and crevices that just have to make comfortable snake homes, I decide vipers can't be good for wandering 42 year olds, either. José shakes his head as he watches young Fearless swing over a precipice.

A few minutes later I meet José's eyes, spend a moment, and am justly rewarded:

"Este viento es malo."
This wind is bad.

Though malo translates as bad, and often means just that, there are times when the Spanish hiss as they say it - spitting out a malo that suggests something demonic, evil, other worldly. That's the malo José uses to describe the wind.

Seems he's known villagers to move to the towns on the coast where these winds are strongest - Tenerife, for example, or the military base nearby - only to return locos. His eyes grow and he pours paragraphs - paragraphs from a Poe story or a Stephen King novel - into a single word. Locos. As final proof he tells me about a goatherd friend whose goats have suddenly started wandering aimlessly, each on her own path, unherdable, uncontrollable. Locas.

"Este viento. Malo."
******

We make it into the cave after 30 or 40 minutes and 6 or 7 new arrivals. As we line up to pass through the gate, the British arrive. All 8 of them. Now this is a grupito! José is estatic. The larger the group, he tells me in Spanish, the lower the price. I translate, and the now-complete grupito agrees that José did the right thing by making us wait.

Inside the cave, José collects 6 euros and a country of origin from each of us.

"Inglesa?" he asks when I step up to pay.
"Americana", I answer.

He's beaming again! Now this is a new reaction in Spain, I think. Happiness on meeting an American!

"Like Ronald Reagan."

"Well, yes", I respond, thinking to myself, "and millions of other people."

"He's in the cave. I'll introduce you." Te lo presentaré.

Am I losing my Spanish in the Andalusian accent or has this man just invited me to meet Ronald Reagan in a cave?