When the big drought hit Andalusia in the late thirties it coincided with the worst of the Civil War. Tragedy does not strike alone. There was no water in the rivers, no jobs and very little love left within families and friends. Work was scarce or non existent. The Andalus took the bull by the horns and emigrated to harsher climes but secured work. A few took seasonal tasks like harvesting or planting, leaving wife and children at home, sending money every month. Others worked on yearly contracts bringing their family with them for the duration. In the former case the casual worker was given temporary accommodation, usually the left-over prefab of the aftermath of the war. If there was a whole family involved then a proper lodging was provided by the employer.
Many Andalus chose the ultimate straight forward legal emigration. It seemed at the time to be the only solution, fleeing from a country where brothers were killing each other and where fathers repudiated their sons for belonging to another cause. Long shadows, still casting their spectrums nowadays, have got long memories.
Try to buy, these days, a property in Andalusia that belongs to a third generation of feuding great grandparents in the time of the infamous war and you will soon grab a couple of Aspirin washed down with a glass of local wine. Then you might decide to play safe and buy a new apartment in a block overlooking the sea only to find out that the mayor of the town never emigrated anywhere and signed the permission to build only under the duress of a wad of Euros forced in his back pocket. Your dream condo is literally under the hammer.
A few weeks ago the Unicaja Bank held a very interesting exhibition of old photographs and documents dating from the great Andalusian exodus during the late fifties. This is a wandering exhibition so wherever you are in Andalusia it is bound to hit an expo room near you. We live in Antequera and the Unicaja has a beautiful expo complex that would put a lot of European galleries to shame. Dear old Unicaja. In the 60´s it used to be "The Monte de Piedad y Caja de Ahorros". We used to call it the Cage of Horrors. The Monte de Piedad was the translation of Mont de Piete (in French) and Pawn shop (in English). It was easier to sell your blood for 1500 pesetas a go in Almeria rather than to pawn a piece of gold at the bank.
The quality of our blood in those days had a lot to be desired but it was needed. I have the feeling that some patients survived thanks to the vast amount of Larios gin and Dyk whisky that was transferred from foreigners to nationals in need.
I have always said that immigration was the life blood of any country.
One of these documents dated 1969 showed a hand-written letter from a French farmer to the mayor at his Town Hall. The farmer, Jean Andre Ducas with a farm at Chateauneuf sur Loire, certifies that he has signed a contract for a year’s work with Francisco Mateo Morales of some address in Almeria ( I could not decipher it) and what’s more guaranteed Fransisco, his wife and children a decent lodging for the duration of the contract. The contract was approved by the authorities as it bears the stamps and signature of the Maire and his secretary.
A far cry from the present situation of the immigrants working under those appalling plastic greenhouses who sleep in cots at one end of the plastic tunnels and share a loo and shower with all 40 of their co-workers.
Some photographs showed Spanish families making their new lives in France, Germany, Switzerland, balancing a tricky act between integration into their host country and their roots back in Andalusia. Some went back home for holidays, packing their old banger with as many bodies and utilities they could secure on the roof. Nowadays anyone travelling on any motorway leading to Algeciras, passing hundreds of charabancs bursting at the seams with Moroccan families, old fridges, discarded sinks and anything that could be useful back in the old country, can visualises the annual temporary migrations of Spaniards bringing some useful items to the elders up the hills.
Some Spaniards chose to emigrate to the other side of the world. Australia was the favourite choice and when you think about it they could not have gone any further from their problems at home without backtracking. The Spanish dictatorship was so glad to get rid of the dissatisfied that it actually paid for nearly all the fares to the promised land. In 1970, a certain Bernal Rueda of Madrid got a letter from the Department of Emigration confirming that the Department was taking charge of his and his wife’s passages to Australia and that their contribution was only 1952 .00 pesetas each. How is that for a send off? The free medical examination was obligatory and so was the registration at the Spanish Consulate of the host country. In this way the host country kept track of the number of immigrants and reorganised its medical services accordingly. Something that should be re-introduced nowadays in Spain. Any emigrant (and let’s face it if you do not hold a Spanish passport you are an emigrant whatever your colour or your country of origin) must report to the Town Hall and register on the "padron". This has nothing to do with taxes. It has to do with the number of heads living in the village or town. Every year the Town Hall sends a census to the local government. If the number of heads rises then the local or central governments increase the number of doctors, nurses, licences for pharmacies, improvement of schooling facilities etc.. It is plain stupidity for any emigrant (full time or part time) to grumble about the lack of facilities or the long wait at the surgery if that ignorant has not registered himself and his family at the Town Hall. I know a village in the province of Almeria that has 75% of its population as unregistered foreigners. As far as the local government is concerned there are only 2000 registered souls in the village and one doctor is enough. Imagine the chaos.The problem is compounded by the fact that many Andalusian emigrants or their descendants are returning to the land of their ancestors. The formidable boom of tourism has opened a massive trough of jobs, housing that they can afford having made good money somewhere else, medical care that is one of the best in the world and finally the dubious advantage of a democratic government. Even more debatable is the fact that Spain is in the EU.
The last two decades of the 20th century has seen a quarter of a million Spaniards returning to their land. A special Department has been created to accommodate the prodigal returns. Social Security, Hacienda, Land Registries (some properties having been demolished, sold, squatted in, re-sold with proceeds scattered to all winds) are all having massive headaches and Aspirin is bought in bulk by central Government.
Once upon a time there they were: gone.
Then, there they are: back.
With a lot of cuckoos in the nests.
Malaga Towns 
