This article was reproduced from the The Olive Press  and can be seen in it's original format Here

Cave Life Part I - a megalithic odyssey

“HAVE you seen the prehistoric wall?” asked Fernando earnestly. I had to confess that I hadn’t. I’d tried to look for it but couldn’t really make it out amongst the other rocks. He went on to explain its composition of limestone and other minerals. “They call this area the Badlands” he went on, “because it looks like the Grand Canyon.”

Having never seen the Grand Canyon I could only agree with him. “And there are dolmens here – hundreds – perhaps thousands of them!” I nodded some more.

Now I have to admit that I had only a shaky idea of what a dolmen was. Despite owning a copy of rock star/pagan religion historian Julian Cope’s ambitious tome “The Megalithic European” I had only the haziest idea that he may be talking about pre-Christian burial mounds. I thought I’d better do some investigation…

Wikipedia, that modern day oracle, defines a dolmen as a “megalithic single chamber tomb consisting of large stones (megaliths) set in formation.” Apparently this area of northern Granada Province is liberally scattered with them. Fernando, who works in the ticket office of this desert oasis near Gorafe, couldn’t hide his enthusiasm for the subject. But who was buried in them? I pondered this as I sat in hot volcanic water, gazing out across the aforementioned Badlands and watching a dark curtain of rain approaching. Jasmine, three years old and blissfully uninterested in ancient Iberian civilisations, paddled around the steamy pool in her plastic ring with unabashed joy.

We had come upon this place by accident. I was supposed to be scouting out distribution points in Guadix when my interest was piqued by an article concerning a two thousand two hundred year old statue of a local goddess or queen. La Dama de Baza (the Lady of Baza), as she is known, was discovered in 1971 and hastily displayed in the local museum, until it was suddenly removed to Madrid to undergo ‘restoration’. Like many who take off for the capital, La Dama was never to return. To this day the museum displays a replica version of the goddess. Whether fake or not I was determined to go and pay a visit. But in the meantime I had work to do.

Extracting my daughter from the spa water (and here, I am put in mind of the opening paragraph of Robert Byron’s seminal travelogue ‘The Road to Oxiana’, where he talks of the Venice Lido as having water “like hot saliva”) we dry off and retreat to the oven-like interior of the Land Rover. We blast back along the straight and narrow road that leads us to the A92n, windows open wide and Neil Young wailing “Let’s Impeach the President” on the stereo. Oncoming cars float like UFOs in the heat wave for minutes at a time and then roar past with only inches to spare. It’s a wonder that any nearside wing mirrors survive in these parts. I pull over and take in the view from a vantage point. Below the road is a huge depression of eroded landscape that is almost breathtaking in its immensity. Stretching into the distance one can only see mile upon mile of curious perky mounds and occasional green patches marking the presence of some spring or natural pool. Vast smooth sided hills rise up on the horizon like terrestrial gods and it’s hard to imagine this landscape changing at all since the appearance of a peculiar bipedal ape which would one day take over the world. Locals modestly call this region the “Cradle of European Humankind.”

Fast forwarding a few epochs we roll into modern day Guadix – which is itself beholden to the Renaissance age. In the shadow of the dominating cathedral I sip a cold beer and devour a tapa. The late afternoon sun has honeyed the sandstone walls and swarms of swallows dip and wheel around the baroque architecture in a frenzy. This spot, as is often the case in Spain, is the site of a former a mosque, and has been sacred to people for centuries. Perhaps longer? I wonder about the people who lived here before the arrival of the monotheistic religions of Christianity and Islam. Surely such a commanding spot in a naturally fertile area would have served as a place of worship for whatever pagan cults lived here before? I ask Jasmine what she thinks but she’s busy colouring in a cartoon bear and doesn’t deign to answer.

Our place of accommodation for this journey is, fittingly, a cave. As many people know, a good proportion of the population in these parts live in subterranean abodes, carved out of the soft mud-like earth like so many termite mounds. The upper barrio of town is the cave quarter – and that’s where our hotel is supposed to be. I’m a little disappointed in the cave quarter. Hyperbolic talk of troglodytes and cave dwellings has put me in a Tolkeinesque frame of mind. But most of the caves have been extended outwards into the open air and the overall impression is not of subterranean but suburbia - more Surbiton than Hobbiton.

I drive around, totally lost, noting the absence of street signs and occasionally stopping to scowl at the map and ask old men for directions. Nobody, it seems, has any idea where our cave hotel is.

Eventually, way out in the campo, we find our lodgings just as the sun is beginning to set over the distant Sierra Nevada. Maria leads us to our room, which is an ‘all mod cons’ cave with a TV and a minibar. Inside is slightly dank, with the faint suggestion of encroaching mould. It is, in fact, just like our house in Pampaneira and I feel immediately at home. Jasmine drops off more or less immediately and I sit outside on the step with a bottle of Gran Feudo, a couple of books on Spain and the emerging evening stars. We are far enough out of town to allow for a desert silence to envelop us and I sit and read until late, drawn in by the fascinating history of the Iberian peninsula.

Not too much is known about the various tribes and races that lived in what is now Spain before the arrival of the Phoenicians (salt traders from what is now Lebanon). Legend has it that a fantastic Iberian city called Tartarus existed at this time, although no evidence has ever been unearthed to support this. By the time the Romans arrived on the scene the ethnic mix of Andalucia was enriched by Celtic tribes from the north, Greek traders, Carthaginians (who had been the most belligerent of visitors) and numerous others. There is no evidence of any pan Iberian pagan culture, although some believe bull-worshipping cults existed as a by-product of settlement by Minotaur-worshipping Cretans. The more I read the more I anticipated visiting La Dama de Baza the following day.

I wake up the next morning with the sun streaming in through the cave’s only window. Jasmine wakes up with chickenpox. I try to call Michelle for advice but the twenty metre thick cave walls effectively block out 21st century communication signals. The owner helpfully suggests I stand in the horse paddock next to an electric fence – this being the only spot on his land where a signal can be had. So, with horses nuzzling my neck, I discuss our daughter’s ailment. It is decided the best thing to do is to bring her home - after visiting La Dama.

Baza is not all that far away from Guadix along the main road. I parked up in the ‘new town’ and strolled to the Plaza Mayor where the attractive 16th century church is located – as is the museum. We were the only visitors and, indeed, from the curator’s obvious delight, possibly the only ones for some time. The Goddess is situated on the top floor and we climbed the marble staircase with a certain sense of anticipation (I had previously forewarned Jasmine that we were going to see a ‘stone lady’). La Dama, when she hove into view, was sitting on a winged throne inside a glass box. I tried to block out the knowledge that she was a reproduction, imagining instead the fantasy of unearthing her in some dry and dusty dolmen. Being of almost life size proportions she appears to be of European or north African ethnicity, having an aquiline nose and a Victorian ‘we are not amused’ look on her face. She is, perhaps, a young queen and is wearing exuberant jewellery and headwear. A channel in the side of her throne was used to store remains, so she was almost certainly a reliquary for ashes or bones. I gaze at her in this exquisite wood-panelled room, trying to imagine the hands that carved her – a futile attempt at connection with a long since extinguished culture. Just who was she? She haunts the room with her presence.

Hands clutch at my pockets. I look down at Jasmine, who is clinging nervously to my side. “What is it?” I ask. “Naughty man” she says, pointing to the adjoining room from which she has just emerged. I reassure her and go to see this “naughty man”. I find him reclining on a bed of sand, his skeletonised form languishing with a certain devil-may-care attitude. I lean in to get a closer look at his face and he returns the look with a rictus grin. “Wanna know who I am?” he seems to say, mockingly. The label above him says he might be a Roman. Or perhaps or Visigoth. Or maybe an Iberian Celt.

Like a lot of things around here, I guess we’ll never know.








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