A friend out walking in the Aragonese pre-Pyrenees the other day came across an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere that was obviously in the final stages of conversion to a country grillhouse. Inside she discovered a man and a woman, surrounded by empty bottles of beer, paralytically drunk. The man was from Rumania, the woman from Equatorial Guinea, and it transpired that they had been left there with their bags by a local businesswoman. The deal was that they would finish off the conversion, in return for which she would bring them food every day and pay them €300 each when it was finished. Unfortunately she hadn’t showed for three days (and the chances that she would pay them what she had promised were minimal anyway), so they had decided to drink as much as they could and then start walking to try to find a town in order to start begging and borrowing their way back to Zaragoza.

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  1. In search of the intersection, deep in the Monegros desert of Aragon, of the Greenwich Meridian with the parallel of Barcelona’s street name, I came across an isolated, irrigated peach plantation, on whose edge was a metal hangar with around 50 African pickers, all men, taking a midday break. I asked for water, and a cautious black foreman passed me a bottle through a chink in the door, nervous of me seeing inside. The plantation was surrounded, as far as the eye could see, by rocks, bones and vultures.

  2. Moraleja: If you come to Spain for work you got nothing…
    Join the Mafia today and enjoy or works-> ask for money in fast-foods and in trains, clean cars while they’re stopped in a semaphore or be brave (not like that spaniards :P) and join our group of home-assault (or the moving variation of truck-in-a-highway-resting-area assault).
    Of course, you’re local Mafia Capo will be avery clever spanish but they’ll never show up in the tv escorted by the police, going to jail. That’s your role.


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