The day I met Jesus


I met Jesus the other day. It was monday, about 6.30 in the evening.
I nodded, he smiled, and gave me a little wave.
Strangely its not the first time I have seen Jesus lately. I saw him on the road near the turn off for Bolonia originally, then again a couple of days later in a bush just off the road to El Palmar.

Having just realised that my newly acquired Ikea mosquito net is about as good at stopping me getting bitten as… 
I sit here on my bed remembering Jesus.

The oil leak, I had noticed, started about two weeks ago. I resigned myself to the fact my old Saab had done a few miles and was probably due to start leaking at some point.
I noticed it the day I took Sasha out.
We had stopped, not far, in fact, from the bush I had previously seen Jesus in. The early bloom of the vast fields of sunflowers had excited Sasha and I had obliged by pulling over and down a bumpy farm track so she could take photo’s.
That was when I noticed the smell of burning oil, as the long grass underneath the swedish blonde had transferred droplets of oil onto the exhaust manifold.

I stuck a liter in the next time I was at the Cepsa filling station in Tarifa.

The mosquito is now dead, I caught it whilst wandering naked to grab my computer and a bowl of muesli in order to write this. Just in case you need a tip. If you don’t have any milk in your fridge, the spanish drink Gaseosa goes well as a substitute, and adds a little froth to the bowl.

Back to monday. 
It had been a great day at the office, one I must admit had had me worried, as I usually find Canadians hard work.
The couple were joined by a tall Russian who was called Nick. I guess, like Sasha, he has shorted his very Russian name to something more trans global.
He got on my nerves straight away. I am the teacher and I don’t need anyone else telling me how to do my job.
It turned out that the Canadian couple, John and Kelly, were buddy’s of Nicks through their involvement in the Olympics. They were in fact all Ski Jumpers.
Nick buggered off after a while on the beach, realising I was not really listening to him too much, and concentrating on doing my thing.
The 3 hours and a bit passed quickly, with lots of swimming and head bashing in the quite unseasonal waves. All smiles and no doubt a little exhaustion had ended the lesson well, and Nick returned to help me send a text to Sasha in Russian to get her ass down to the beach to enjoy what was shaping up to be an excellent afternoon session.

The kiting was great, and I enjoyed the afternoon wind in a little show off hour with Mike from Wave Bandits.  

Full of natural high, I headed back home. The 45 kilometres is beautiful,  and as quite often, the fuel read out said 35 miles, normally enough.
Jose the garage owner was expecting me, as the leak that morning had left a decidedly larger patch of oil on the steep slope outside my residence.
Over the last few weeks I have grown to love this daily commute, often with national Radio Tres on.
Estas escutchar radio tres.
Facinas ,then the windmills of Tahivilla and on past the beautiful lavender field and ranch.
It was at the curvy bit by the military training ground that she started to splutter, but then sparked again.
Seeing the town in the distance I thought we were going to make it but shortly after passing Montenmedio Country Park, she could go no further and I pulled off the tarmac onto the gravel.
So there I am, nearly 5 k from the nearest petrol station and 5 miles from home.
The dash light showing a diagram of the engine glowing orange.
Now I am truly buggered, and this adventure feels like it has finally ended.

With nobody to shout at, and to be honest no real inclination to shout anyhow, I write a note on an old receipt to let any passing Garda know that I have gone for fuel, and set of on my stroll.

Just before I first set eyes on Jesus, I find an empty plastic canister in the heavily littered undergrowth beside the n340. Also hiding there was the complete skeleton of a sheep, its teeth smiling up at me in some kind of delight, at my plight, from its white skull..

Having left my sun block in Sasha’s bag a day or two before, my nose was beginning to throb and no doubt glow a little, as I started the long trudge in my shorts and espadrilles.
I always stop for hikers but none seemed interested in me as they all sped by, and yes that includes the van from “some might fly”. Bloody Spanish!

That is when I first spotted the white clad figure way in the distance. At first I thought it must be a woman as I could make out quite a lot of long flowing hair.
Our paths were to cross, probably 5 minutes later. He heading south on the other side of the road and me going north, both with the traffic. 
Jesus seemed more aptly dressed for the hot evening sun. His billowing white shirt and pantaloons, with leather thongs on his feet. The shock of whitish hair and beard made up the look, topped off with a slight gingering highlight around his mouth, probably caused by nicotine.

My very light Japanese cotton shirt is dripping wet by the time I arrive at the petrol station at Barca just after 7.30.






The day I met Jesus, seems so long ago