Alfonso García Guerrero lives far away. So far in fact that Google maps do not know how to draw the route between Cuevas de Almanzora, the Almerian village where he was born and the city where he lives now. Below a hill, crowned by the chapel of the Virgin of Pakeeva, protector of intrepid travellers, lies his city. Krasnoyarsk. In the heart of Siberia, a place conquered by ferocious Cossacks, a stop off point for the Trans-Siberian rail route, the Gulag for dissidents and the destination of crazy adventurers. Alfonso’s life has rocketed high and far from its Andalusian beginnings but he still introduces himself, in his striking accent, a mix of Russian and Almerian, as “the first Spaniard to bring Spanish tomatoes to Russia.” A business venture which involved bankruptcy, Mafia threats, snow, several strokes of luck and a song by Julio Iglesias.

It all started in 1951. Alonso was born in Almeria, an enterprising boy who, before his eighteenth birthday, had obtained an export license thanks to a trip to Madrid. By the time he was twenty, he had worked in France, had owned bars and was known as ‘Rumasa’ by locals. The commercial opening of the USSR in the 1990’s and its subsequent dismemberment changed Alfonso’s life. “I managed to close a deal of five million dollars which cost me a bottle of Vega Sicilia costing 160,000 pesetas (nearly 1,000 euros)”. The deal however, wasn’t worth it. “I sent 40 lorries and a million dollars but they never paid me. I was ruined”. So, he made a decision to get his money back. Alfonso was told that the people who scammed him were in Moscow. He took a train, plane tickets were too expensive, and managed to live on sweet buns thanks to the charity of a fellow passenger. “The men I had made the business deal with were members of the Mafia and were staying in The Moscow Hotel. They treated him well, champagne, caviar, girls...with no trace of money. I got on my knees before them, but...”. Alfonso must have insisted too much because he was later sent a message: “Get out of here, they’re going to kill you.”

Knowing there was a price on his head and that his family were barely surviving in Spain on the generosity of the shopkeeper who lived downstairs from them, Alfonso went to the bank and, placing his gold watch on the manager’s desk, asked for money. Opportunities can be had in times of crisis, the economy was collapsing, shop shelves were bare and the Soviet Union in free fall. Alfonso saw his opportunity and knowing he couldn’t return to Spain with no money he went back to what he knew best. Exports. It was 1991, when, with ten kilos of potatoes in the larder and 20 dollars in his pocket, he set up Fruit Spain. “I used to go to the squares and do demonstrations with custard apples, loquats and avocados, fruit the people had never seen before”. He sold Spanish fruit as if they were jewels, bag of mandarins sold for 160 rubles, about 4 euros and at the time, an absolute fortune.

Alfonso maintains he wasn’t interested in getting involved in politics and refused to supply Gorbachov. A couple of large men with full length leather coats coaxed him into changing his mind. “I accepted the contract because I believed that they were from the Mafia, it turned out that they had actually been sent by Boris Yeltsin”. For five years he provided goods for the “drunk” leader and Alfonso found himself amongst the elite of the country’s business men. However, life had another surprise in store for him.

“They put me in charge of exporting 300,000 dollars worth of furniture, I told them they were crazy, I knew nothing about furniture but they insisted”. When the business went bust, he was paid with 100,000 dollars worth of furniture from a shop in Krasnoyarsk. “I arrived, hired his staff and we sold them”. Years later, he was running almost a dozen shops selling Spanish furniture from The China Sea to Mongolia. In each one, a Spanish flag was flown at the door and the sound of Julio Iglesias could be heard from within.

“Now, everything has changed so much here. When I first arrived, there was nothing. There were just three cars on Lenin Street. We made a lot of money and we were made bankrupt a few times”. Now, almost all investors look at Russia like a sweet of the BRIC countries (Brazil, Russia, India and China). The Almerian no longer deals in furniture and fruit. In a few months he will be 60 and will retire. The next step? To live the curse of the emigrant. “When I am over there, I will miss this and when I am here, I want to be in Spain...”.

Russian BigMac with an Andalusian taste

Russians may be used to queuing but the crowds on 31st January 1991 were definitely out of the ordinary. More than five thousand people turned up for the opening of Russia’s first McDonalds, a symbol of capitalism and a confirmation of the imminent fall of the Soviet Union. Few people knew, however, that the lettuces were from the Almerian village of Cuedas de Almanzora, the birth place of Alfonso García who maintains that they were sent over in the first fruit and vegetable convoy to travel from Spain to Russia. Today, eating in McDonalds is no big news, in fact the restaurant in Pushkin Street is the most frequented of all the McDonald’s chains world wide. It has attracts more than 73 million customers and no longer has to use imported produce.