The "shitlog"

Her two bits of ocean stared at me in disbelief while she affirmed it was the most surreal thing she had ever heard. I replied it was true; it was even mentioned in a BBC show recently (see video clip here). Yes, we Catalans do hit a log for it to shit presents on Christmas eve. And yes we do place in our chrèche, in a discrete spot, a figure defecating, the "caganer". Let me explain.

Every Catalan home is decorated with a “tió” –which thanks to public schooling has survived as a tradition and coexists with a Christmas tree or crèche or sometimes both-. The “tió” –not “cagatió” and hence not “shitlog” as wrongly translated in the video clip- is a log, usually one irregular and full of holes, nerves and cavities, anthropomorphized with a smiling face and wearing a “barretina”, the typical Catalan shepherd cap. This tradition comes from rural Catalonia, from the time when Santa Claus had not been imported yet and poor communications, isolation and enclaves made the arrival of the three wise men unlikely. The log would be covered with a blanket and children would hit it with sticks and sing for it to defecate sweets and presents previously hidden in the log’s holes and cavities by the parents. Of course the fantasy would have been built up by simulating the log had been fed for a week, with the enthusiastic participation of the children.

I had done that when I was a kid, and when I told my mother about my friend’s incredulity she recalled one of the few vivid memories she has from early childhood: right after Christmas, when her father –the grandfather that I never met, for he passed away long before I was born-, would chop wood for the fireplace, she would lurk and observe attentively, ready to jump for any sweets left.

It is also true that we place in every crèche a character, usually a shepherd, kneeling down and defecating. We place it in a discrete corner, although my brother and me used to get reprimanded by my mother for intentionally misplacing it beside the son of the Father in an act of petty domestic blasphemy. She never spoke of blasphemy though, just of bad taste and lack of respect. She also added that the son of the Father did not deserve that smell.

The tradition has evolved lately, and from having just a shepherd now all sorts of public figures are depicted in this condition or position –from local politicians to Obama, from the best paid player of FC Barcelona to the last top model, which should mean no offence, as in this case it is rather a recognition of a certain notoriety-. In fact the introduction of celebrities reinforces the expression of the main underlying message: bodily functions are natural and universal, and while they should be performed in discretion, they should not be a reason for shame.

I will leave the interpretation of all these pieces of escathologic culture -particularly the second bit- to the folklorists and anthropologists. I just had to write this to convince her I was not pulling her leg and to try providing some explanation. Now if you will excuse me...

Airport security

A few hours before xmas eve. For the first time since I left Barcelona I will go back home for xmas only on the 24th itself, just in time for the “shitlog” (new entry to come soonest). I used to do so earlier, to allow some time for last minute shopping and prepare for all the excesses, gastronomic and others. This time, though, I waited until the last moment to allow myself a longer holiday break.

I set for the Parisian Orly airport by taxi. Streets seemed almost empty by my place, but I forgot it is indeed 24 December and I am flying in the early afternoon. I am bound to face a city close to collapse with traffic jams, as everyone just left their workplaces to head home in this shortened working day. Not only the taxi will cost me a fortune; on top of it I will reach the airport in full anxiety to check in before the flight is closed. I trust meteorology will have caused some delays; I will only be wrong in part. I get to the terminal just on schedule and yet I will have to wait. The flight is delayed.

We are told the delay is caused by the late arrival of the aircraft, which was flying in from Rome, where a lady had a panic attack and had to be disembarked with her family. Security regulations indicate that in such a case the luggage has to be located and unloaded. Logical, but not on account of any preoccupation about that particular person’s welfare, but rather to avoid that the luggage could be forgotten intentionally and with criminal motivations.

The world’s evolution, particularly during the last decade, transformed security measures in such a way that, being a frequent traveler, forced me get used to all the procedures. As soon as my luggage is checked in I set for the security control. My wallet, my keys, my telephone, all goes in the pockets of my jacket, which will be scanned. I take off my belt and store it in my briefcase. My laptop will also go through the detector on a separate tray.

I am not carrying any liquids or gels, not even a miserable bottle of water. I try to avoid them since their transport in cabin was severely restricted after an attempt to blow airplanes in flight by use of liquid explosives. This was another security measure with interesting side effects; in this case it implied reinforcing the business of bars and restaurants in airports, as well as the general trend by which terminals became enormous shopping malls targeting travelers, who have by definition a considerable purchasing power.

I always asked myself which percentage of the security ritual is nothing but dissuasion or sheer intimidation. This was crystal clear to me in 2000, in Tel-Aviv, when I had to witness how a military officer with a metal detector went through every single piece of my luggage including dirty underwear. That was nothing but the Israeli despicable punishment as I dared spending some time with Palestinian friends in the West Bank. 9/11 prompted security measures to increasingly emulate this Israeli experience, which back then was just a draconian exception. Ever since all the security ritual reinforced all procedures, and most particularly this intimidation side, which I find revolting. I simply detest being treated as a criminal. Intimidation is part of the game, and measures are on the increase after the last incident in Amsterdam when a criminal wanted to blow off a plane using explosive hidden in his underwear. Hugely expensive all-body scans will be installed at the Schiphol airport. However, I read opinions by experts who say upgrading security measures will only cause delays and stress, and that efforts should concentrate on observing people’s patterns of behavior as the terrorists’ seem to be quite distinguishable.

My walk through the metal detector and my thinking is disturbed by a resounding beep. I don’t know what did provoke it, as I never went through any surgery that involved inserting any metal piece in my body. If it were not the bit of metal in my glasses or iron in my liver (?), I ignore what it was. A security guard comes and politely asks whether he can search me. I concede as I do not know what might happen if I refuse. I extend my arms and he searches me. As he goes down my chest and before getting to my legs, his exceeding zeal or excess in hurry result in him touching my left testicle. I immediately jump back, he immediately goes pale and apologizes, which he will later reiterate while I start chuckling in a mix of disbelief and amazement.

As explained above in a more polite language, a certain approach to security measures in airports always broke my balls. However, I never imagined one day this would come so close to being literal.

Spring in Montevideo

Once again Montevideo welcomes me with open arms. This time it feels warmer than ever, for I had only seen the city in winter. The change is notable. Two things strike me: firstly, the light; the sun is much higher and daylight lasts much longer in these last days of the Austral spring than in August. Secondly, the trees; the platanus were naked in winter, now they are dressed in live green and give the streets a completely different aspect, full of live.

I land in Montevideo three days after the run off to the presidential election. The majority went to the electoral ticket of the Frente Amplio, the coalition of the left led into power by the outgoing president, Tabaré Vázquez. The President elect is Mr. José Mujica, “el Pepe”. 75 years old, former member of the Movimiento de Liberación Nacional - Tupamaros, the urban guerrilla that operated in Uruguay in the late sixties and early seventies.

Pepe Mugica is a very controversial character, the kind of charismatic person that leaves no margin but to love or hate. Obviously his past as a guerrilla leader earns him numerous detractors. Yet there is more. Pepe continued to live in his chacra even when appointed minister of agriculture with president Vázquez. Pepe speaks the language of the people in the street, even consciously reproducing typical grammar mistakes people make. Pepe does not wear suits, just ordinary shirts, sweaters and jackets. A number of Uruguayans do not think his image allows him to represent the country in a proper manner and reckon international representation should be left to Danilo Astori, the vice-president elect and minister of economy with Tabaré. They reckon he is too plain, too raw, they think he has no style, he looks too much like a peasant. Besides, the country cannot afford being represented by a former guerrilla leader.

El Pepe used to appear daily in an early morning radio show that I used to listen to when I lived in Montevideo. He would comment on daily matters, on the economy, on politics… I was always struck by the deepness of his thinking combined with an enormous pedagogic capacity; he would be able to explain complicated things and convey complex messages in a totally intelligible and compelling language. Having heard him several times nobody can convince me that he is simple. Quite the contrary.

On the other hand, I do not think anyone should make a fuss about his past as a guerrilla leader –a terrorist, to use a term hugely connotated in Latin America well before 9/11-, all the more when he spent fifteen years in jail. He does not resemble any of the former guerrilla leaders now in power in the region. He is not like the Castro brothers, who maintain Cuba in a surreal economic system that creates poverty and despair rather than wealth; he is not Daniel Ortega, who turned the Sandinist revolution into a parasitarian cleptocracy. And in terms of the present Latin American left, he is much closer to Lula than to Chávez.

If I were Uruguayan, would I be proud? I do not know. I am sure I would not be ashamed, though. El Pepe won the presidency talking plain politics and economy to the people, while most of the world lives in the era of showbiz-like politics, where the real issues are often hidden by a spin of action where appearing to be constantly doing something becomes much more important than actually achieving anything –from Blair to Sarkozy through Zapatero, Cristina Kirchner or Abdulaye Wade-. A model sublimated by Berlusconi, the biggest master of diversion whose presence into politics responds mainly to his search to protect his own personal wealth and nothing else. If I take these other examples, some of them better than others, I can say as humbly as firmly that in my opinion Uruguayans should not be ashamed. Rather, they should be proud.