Monday, December 20, 2004

Its All So... Ethnic



"I don't believe you"

I was enjoying the surreality of sitting in a sunny pavement cafe, enjoying a glass of chilled cava and feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. Why surreal? Not 4 hours previously, I'd dragged myself and my suitcase into the cold pre-dawn of England, across the frozen pavement outside my house and into the waiting taxi. I don't think I'll ever get used to air-travel.

The flight with a well-known UK budget airline left my soul tarnished and my bowels weakened. It had been a little bouncy flying over the mountains (the stewardess had stood in the aisle, gripping two headrests with whitened knuckles while she trotted out comforting words through gritted teeth.) I'd disgraced myself already; as the plane suddenly dropped a few hundred feet and the passengers shrieked, my "FUCK!" drowned out the whimperings of those near me. I couldn't tell if the stewardess went as pale as the rest of us while the Airbus bucked; her fake tan covered a multitude of sins. I was impressed by her loyalty to the airline - whatever product she was using had left her skin tinted a similar colour to that of the company colours of the carrier. Orange.

On the positive side, it was sunrise when I flew out and sunset when I returned. If I ever get bored of looking at those phenomenons of nature I'll know its time to take the euthanasia pill.

Which brings me back to the above incredulous statement.

"They put *what* into the nativity scene?"
"Its true," my companion insisted, "Look, I'll show you"

Now, a nativity scene in my mind involves a badly made model of a stable, bits of straw scattered liberally around and small figures of a man, a woman, and an alleged newly born baby placed in a matchbox masquerading as a manger with a miniature frisbee stuck to its head. Higher class versions might also include shepherds, sheep, kings and the odd angel or two. The Catalan people of Barcelona have an additional twist on the theme. As well as the figures already mentioned they also insert a figurine of a man squatting, his trousers around his ankles and the results of a particularly hearty meal the night before emerging from between his buttocks.

What the heck is *that* about?

My companion tried to explain the scatalogical obsession of her adoptive people, "Its to do with nature. Its a natural function and so they celebrate it, and, er..." She trailed off as the expression on my face indicated that I wasn't buying it. "They call the figure the 'shitter'," she said brightly, "Thats a literal translation"

We walked through the market. Every stall seemed to be selling a variation on the theme of a crapping man as well as the rest of the products one expects to find at this time of year. One stall-holder had some interesting models of the next-in-line to the Spanish throne and his new bride. Both had the their pants around their ankles, had adopted a squatting pose and, er, well, you know the rest.

I also discovered that the Catalans (can't comment on the rest of the Spanish people) have a fascinating version of the Father Christmas figure. Theirs is a log, or a segment of a branch with a crudely drawn face on one end replete with a jolly christmas hat on top. The log is then struck with a stick, a happy song sung and presents are supposed to emerge from the other end. The log is known as "Uncle Shitter" (I think - the Cava was starting to affect the translation.) A huge version was present at the market and doubtful children were encouraged to thump it while singing the song in return for a gift.

A young woman thrust a clipboard at me and urged me to put my name to the petition calling for Catalan independance. I was enjoying their sunshine, architecture and alcohol and so signed up. I added a comment in the box provided: "No-one is going to take your country seriously until you lose the poo obsession."

This time next week I'll be heading off to spend my first new year away from family. In the snow.