Tragedy
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It smells like death when stepping out of the car. The body of a dog appears beneath a tree - half animal, half mud. Flies dance around it, and the sight is unpleasant. It turns out that this is now a minor problem.
Germinal Vega stands about 20 metres from what a week ago was still his house, in Calle Partido Isla Hermosa in Álora. Tears are about to well up in his eyes. "I was up on the roof when the masses of water came in like an avalanche," he explains. In just a few minutes, the Guadalhorce river had become a threatening torrent and he was evacuated in a Guardia Civil helicopter.
Eleuterio Torres is a neighbour of Germinal. The burly 50-year-old man lived alone in the house across the street. When he saw that the water was entering the kitchen, the only thing he could save was his own life. "I didn't have time to do anything else," he says. What remains now, a week after the flood suddenly assaulted Álora, are the ruins of an existence and an old Singer sewing machine. "It belonged to my mother, who earned her living that way. I want it back," he insists.
Seven days have passed since the 'Dana' storm. A bulldozer relentlessly ploughs the road that is no longer a road. Workers fill a trailer with rubble. Eleuterio points to them. "They belong to private companies, who pay for it out of their own pockets. No one has come here to help us yet." Asking about his mood seems almost audacious. “Desperate,” he replies. “We’re desperate.” He takes a breath and adds, “I don’t need food or mattresses. I just got a call asking if I need a mattress. Where am I supposed to put a mattress? What I need is for someone to clear away the mud.”
It is not just Eleuterio and Germinal. A tour in a 4x4 vehicle reveals that there are still hundreds of residents who find themselves in a situation of destitution. Without electricity and running water. The joy at the absence of fatalities is diluted by the magnitude of what one sees on the ground. Mud, logs and reeds as far as the eye can see. The heavy machinery, which one senses is necessary, is barely perceptible. The word normality does not yet fit in any way.
Álora is a beautiful and proud municipality, about 200 metres above sea level. Everyone knows everyone here. They know who is talking to whom and at what time they go to the bakery. It is not the first time that it has been affected by floods. They still remember the floods of 2012. "It's raining on wet ground," says Tomás Pérez. He is 44 years old and is removing mud from the living room of his mother's house.
The dark circles under the eyes give relief to a face that looks exhausted. Tomás speaks with a subdued expression. "We are tired of saying that the river is carrying more brush than ever. Nobody is doing anything. The worst thing is that this is going to happen again," he declares. Like many inhabitants of Álora, he is furious with the politicians, who only care about themselves, who came to have their photo taken and then disappeared. "The only ones who have come here to remove mud are the provincial firefighters."
Miguel Ángel Vázquez, 52, is one more resident in this manual on 'How people cope with the effects of a catastrophe'. In recent days he has learned to wade through the mud, the slippery mass that has stained his house brown. He invites us in and shows the mark the water has left on the wall. It is almost up to his waist. He has been digging out mud for a week now and in an optimistic estimate he still has months to restore his farm.
Solidarity is strong. There are not thousands and thousands like in Valencia, but the figure of a volunteer appears. "How can we help?" This is one of the most frequently uttered phrases. Javier Sánchez and Alberto Claros are two young men from Malaga. The former is studying to become a National Police officer and the other a forest ranger. ""We saw on social media that more people are needed, and we decided to join in."
Michelangelo asks them if they have tools. They both shake their heads. Will without organisation is like power without control. "It could be better coordinated, to be honest," admits one of the young men, who now feels uncomfortable because he doesn't feel useful.
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To say that parts of the Guadalhorce valley remain mired in mud is no exaggeration. Stenka, a Czech resident with an unpronounceable surname, is a case in point. Twelve years ago, she decided to move into a house near the river. Now she sits on one of the few chairs she has been able to save while firefighters pump the water out of a house that almost became a death trap. "The river overflowed its banks and it was only a matter of seconds before the water entered my house. Luckily, I had time to get upstairs. Otherwise I wouldn't be here right now," she says.
Outside the affected areas, the effects of the Dana only seem to be a mirage. The sun is shining and the temperature is that of a spring day. At Venta los Caballos, a classic in the picturesque surroundings of the Caminito del Rey, people are having an aperitif. The large terrace is full. The aroma of everyday life is confusing.
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At the entrance to Cártama, an Infoca truck reminds onlookers of the situation. The streets in the Doña Ana neighbourhood are cleared of mud, at least on the surface, showing some improvement. Frustration, however, lingers. Antonio Luque, a lemon farmer, had to go off to a corner to cry. He’s tired of politicians and the press. "Always the same promises and always the same questions. We don’t need solidarity; we need them to fix things and clean up the rubbish from the river. You can write that down."
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