Fred's page

Paco and Isabella

They are there every day, bending over their soil, tending their crops. No matter the weather their bodies describe half shut penknives, feet firmly planted, eyes close to the earth, hands and fingers receiving information and acting out micro biological plans.

There was a huge lottery win in our small local town during the mid nineties. In Spain each Christmas they offer towns a syndicated lottery bid. Only a few win. Our local town won it and it was a big deal for the number of people who had taken the collective punt. Millions. Some of those winners took the money and upped to Madrid or Barcelona. Others stayed, changing their lives in all kinds of odd ways.

Not Paco and Isabella.

Their winnings seem to have passed them by. No flashy houses, holidays, cars or the like. He bought a new pig van and they had a new roof on their house, that’s about it. After all the years they still live in their modest house  in the town and they do a daily commute to their piece of land - it takes all of 10 minutes in the van which is, by now, 20 odd years old.

Most days I walk a loop on the mountain behind our house. Its a steep trek up and an easy walk down into the rising sun morning. My decent takes me past their piece of land. Its probably no bigger than a couple of tennis courts but it is tilled, weeded, hoed and tended within an inch of its life. In this desert area water is paramount and the local water-sharing irrigation takes care of those needs. As I write Paco is up there watering the beautiful soil in a way that pools or traps the water for it’s full use.

The pig van does not, to my knowledge, carry pigs. It is a kind of mobile shed containing his rotavator, hand tools and other cultivating equipment. It chugs its way up and down our valley in low gears delaying anybody that is unfortunate enough to fall behind it. Chug, chug, chug.

They wear the standard clothes of Spanish farmers. He with local market bought brown trousers, checked shirt and brown cardigan. She the regulation dark skirts, brown cardigan and always a full headscarf that protects everything from everything. They are always friendly but not talkative. I imagine their chat is about the weather and their horticultural world.

They grow some wonderful things, mainly vegetables of all descriptions. Probably more organic than organic. Boxes overflowing with harvests that can be seen in the chugging van (being a pig van it has vents that enable a bit of glimpsing) as it decends back to the town.

They must be in their late 80s. Longevity is common here. Long days, low stress, great diet, perhaps religion and that connection to the land makes me guess they’ll last much longer. But I am concerned their like is disappearing. Most local farmers I see are mechanised in their production of almonds, olives, goat milk and meat. It’s modern, efficient, financially viable and needing 4x4 vehicles to get around. No pig vans for those guys. Worse still the foreign-backed agro culture producing huge amounts of oranges, olives and almonds whilst draining the water table.

So here is a mere glance at Paco and Isabella. They bend and toil even though they do not need to. At sunrise they ascend, at sunset they descend with many chugs. Its the epitome of the Zen idea of simplicity - ‘chop wood, carry water’. I see them passing our house as they come and go - usually with a modest raised hand in greeting. I walk past their land often unnoticed and unacknowledged without it being a slight.

Their world is a long way from mine and all that goes in it. Mostly that is fine, we all depend on the sunshine here in the desert. I am a happy guy, doing things I find satisfying and having a modest life. But occasionally I get a gripe of envy, not for the money, but for the simplicity, earthbound rhythms, longevity, productivity and belief. 

Actually the money would be quite good………….