Spanish Insight - San Isidro

SEE ALSO:	When the Saints go floating by...
Other Features How to buy a carpet Don Osito at the Carnival Bullfighting Goatman of Compéta Modern day Che Al Andalus Food for Christmas Something About Mary Bottom Trawling Postman Paco Renewable Energies Hippies from Outer Space Zapatero - first 100 days Calender Girls Learn Spanish	Every year on the 15th May Andalucians celebrate the feast of San Isidro, the patron saint of farmers, of the land, of the crops and of peasant workers. Below is Drew Launay’s experience at one such fiesta in an Andalucian village… On this sacred day villagers remove the statue of San Isidro from its niche of honour in their church, decorate it with flowers, place it on a float and, to the accompaniment of the local brass band, take it out in procession to a designated field where they picnic and dance all day in way of thanking him for looking after their interests during the seasons. Such fiestas are always colourful, the pretty girls in flamenco dresses, their macho counterparts on horseback, wearing Cordoba hats, tight red cummerbunds and black waistcoats. It is an occasions to see the usually siesta prone Spanish come to life.
		San Isidro, is carried out of the church, at the Balcon de Europa, Nerja, to begin his journey to his shrine in Maro. He will be accompanied by a variety of colourful floats, horses, and local people dressed in typical Andalucian costume.
	On one 15th May some years back, I went to a village away from the tourist coast to join the inhabitants eagerly waiting in the pueblo square for San Isidro’s statue to be carried out of the church by eight strong men and true. The beloved effigy duly appeared, a little less than life size, white faced, with huge black eyes and saintly smile, draped in a plaster smock painted brown, holding two agricultural implements, with a glittering silver halo implanted in a mass of gold wooden curls. I watched it being placed with the greatest care on a palm leaf adorned cart harnessed to which were two recently shampooed, shining oxen. I followed the ox cart, the saint, and the out of tune brass band with everyone else in procession, we made our way slowly, through the cobbled streets under the hot noon-day sun, then out into the countryside to the chosen festive area a mile or so away. There, in a prepared clearing, the saint was lifted off the cart and placed lovingly on a specially constructed podium of stone, decorated with more palm leaves and wild flowers.
	With others I sat down on the dusty terra-cotta coloured earth in the shade of olive trees and waited to see what would happen next. A mass perhaps? I thought. Offerings of garlands by the local children? The singing, maybe of a traditional hymn? None of that. It seemed that we were first to offer San Isidro a present, a sample of the produce he had helped the farmers grow, for a number of strapping young men came round proffering heavy baskets full of vegetables and fruit. Following my immediate neighbour’s example I picked out a lettuce and a large tomato, noting that not the best produce was being offered, and joined those with fruit and vegetables in hand who were taking up positions in a semi circle in front of the saint. Suddenly, at an apparent given signal, everyone started pelting the idol with the produce. Cabbages, onions, cucumbers, aubergines, potatoes, apples, pears and even a pumpkin, all went flying through the air, most hitting their mark with deadly accuracy. The men shouted impassioned oaths at the poor saint and the women, screaming at the top of their voices, added their somewhat earthier insults. For two or three minutes the barrage of fruit and veg continued until there were no more missiles available and the saint was unrecognizable, covered with garbage, pips and dripping with juices. Sudden peace. Everyone turned their backs on San Isidro and headed for another area where giant paella pans were already simmering over huge charcoal fires and wine was flowing freely from a stack of barrels. ‘Why the attack on the poor saint?’ I asked a reasonably sober looking farmer. ‘San Isidro is not to be pitied’ he hissed. ‘He did nothing for anyone during the year, the crops have been a disaster, the olives poor, the grapes useless, the tomatoes soft. If he expected to be praised and cosseted on his birthday, then he has certainly been taught a lesson. Such saints have to be kept in order. They have to be reminded of their duties!’ A paper cup of wine was thrust into my hand. I was thirsty, I drank. I was handed another. I ate some paella, drank a little bit more, the afternoon disappeared in a stupor of misty mountains and swaying olive branches.	‘San Isidro is not to be pitied’ he hissed. ‘He did nothing for anyone during the year, the crops have been a disaster, the olives poor, the grapes useless, the tomatoes soft...’

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