Photo Essays Spain

MOTRIL ON THE SOUTH COAST OF SPAIN WAS THE CENTRAL TOWN OF A WINTER SOJOURN, 1958-9, ON A PHOTOGRAPHIC EXPEDITION OF WESTERN EUROPE AND MOROCCO ON MY TRIUMPH TIGER CUB. I RENTED A CASA IN TORRENUEVA, SOUTH OF GRANADA, ROUGHLY 5 KILOMETERS EAST OF MOTRIL AND WOULD DRIVE MY MOTORCYCLE EVERY DAY TO MOTRIL FOR A MEAL AT THE LOCALLY SPLENDID HOTEL MEDITERRANEO. THERE I MET ALL KINDS OF FOLKS... (some excerpts:)

MY WAITER, KNEELING, IN THE GROUP WITH BULLFIGHTERS, ASPIRANTS AND FANS.

NOVICE LEFT, AND LOCAL MATADOR HERO, RIGHT, "EL BERENJENO"

THE IMPRESARIO, ABOVE, AND HIS SON.

MATADOR. WE'D MOTORCYCLE RACE ALONG THE MOUNTAIN COAST ROADS AT NIGHT

MY FRIENDS IN MOTRIL WERE GONZALO FERNANDEZ AND HIS BUDDY RAFAEL GARCIA FAJARDO.

RAFAEL FAJARDO (LEFT). HIS FATHER WAS THE LOCAL HEAD OF THE FASClST PARTY, AND WAS KILLED IN BED DURING THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR WHEN REPUBLICANS BROKE INTO HIS HOUSE AND SMASHED HIM OVER THE HEAD WITH A ROCK. GONZALO (RIGHT). HIS FATHER WAS THE EDITOR OF THE LOCAL LIBERAL PAPER, SHUT DOWN BY THE FASCISTS.

THESE TWO MEN WERE NOW THE BEST OF FRIENDS. GONZALO INTENDED TO STUDY JOURNALISM IN GERMANY, BUT RAFAELITO, NOW HEAD OF HIS FAMILY, WAS GRANTED THE LOCAL LOTERIA DISTRIBUTION CONCESSION. HE HAD A LITTLE SALES BOOTH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TOWN SQUARE FILLED WITH STRINGS OF LOTTERY TICKETS AND ALL KINDS OF COLORFUL PLASTIC DOODADS AND GIZMOS EVERYONE LOVED, JUST THEN COMING INTO VOGUE IN EUROPE. IT WAS THE BEGINNING OF THE AGE OF EXPLODING PLASTIC.... INEVITABLE.... ALL OVER THE WORLD.

THE MAN WITH BEANS IN HIS POCKET WAS MY SPANISH TEACHER WHO HAD A CRISP CASTILLAN DIALECT, OF COURSE, NOT THE LOCAL ANDALUCIAN DIALECT, FUZZY AND WARM. (FOR INSTANCE, IN CASTILLAN FISH IS PRONOUNCED "PESCADO" AND IN ANDALUCIAN PRONOUNCED "PTHKOW"). THE MAN WITH THE BERET WAS A RETIRED DANISH SEA CAPTAIN WHO CAME TO PASS THE WINTER ALL THE WAY DOWN SOUTH FROM DENMARK, ON HIS VESPA MOTORSCOOTER.

ON THE RIGHT A SWEDISH COUPLE WHO ALSO MOTORED TO SOUTHERN SPAIN ON THEIR VESPA. HE WAS AN ARTIST, QUIET, SERIOUS, BUT HIS WIFE WAS THE CLASSIC NORDIC BLONDE BOMBSHELL. SHE SEEMED TOO DANGEROUS, WAS A LOCAL SENSATION, ESPECIALLY FOR THE LITTLE RELIGIOUS FISHING VILLAGE OF TORRENUEVA, WHERE THEY TOO HAD RENTED A VILLA, AND WHERE ALL THE WOMEN MODESTLY WEAR BLACK.

IN SALOBRENIA, A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE TOWN OF WHITEWASHED HOUSES CLUSTERED ON THE HILL WEST OF MOTRIL, MY FRIEND WAS SALVADOR RODRIGUEZ AMATI, THE VILLAGE TINKER (ACTUALLY: THINKER). AMATI WAS WARM, OPEN HEARTED AND A WONDERMENT. PICTURED HERE WITH HIS WIFE. HE OWNED ALMOST NOTHING: A FEW CHICKENS, BUT COULD FIX ANYTHING. HE WAS JAILED BY THE FASCISTS AT THE END OF THE CIVIL WAR, BUT ALWAYS EBULLIENT AND UNSTOPPABLE, HE COMPOSED LOVE SONGS TO THE DICTATOR GENERALISSIMO FRANCO, SINGING THEM CONTINUOUSLY UNTIL THEY NO CHOICE BUT TO LET HIM GO.

BEING IN SALOBRENIA, KIDS ALL OVER THE PLACE, HERE FASCINATED BY MY CAMERA AND ME.

IN SALOBRENIA THE LITTLE KIDS OF BOTH SEXES WORE SHORT DRESSES UNTIL THEY WERE OLDER. TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT, THERE WERE NO SERIOUS PROBLEMS WITH TOILET TRAINING. THIS BOY WAS ESPECIALLY SCRUBBED AND DRESSED UP FOR THE VISITING PHOTOGRAPHER.

ENRIQUE MARTIN, COURT OFFICIAL,
AT THE CORRIDA DES TOROS.

Photography: One year motorcycling in Europe and Morocco

Essay: Friends in Motril, Spain, the coast south of Granada

my TRIUMPH TIGERCUB