View From d'Isle
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Jean and the Gypsies
by Jean d'Isle

few miles from the main gate of the Naval Base in Rota, Spain, lies the quaint Andalucian town of Puerto de Santa Maria. In addition to being the birth place of my dog, Pooker, Puerto is famed for its historic prison. It was from among the inmates of this foreboding structure that Columbus gathered the crew for his second voyage to the New World. The prison was still a functioning lockup in the early 1970's and may yet be used for that purpose. And I suspect nobody has cleaned the bathrooms since the late 1400's.

A few blocks from the prison the streets become narrow and poorly maintained, and the neighborhood takes on the rough character of urban poverty. Not many tourists or outsiders have reason or inclination to venture into this densely populated warren.

One warm summer night I found myself threading my way through those mean streets and alleyways, attracting hostile stares and unkind comments, on my way to negotiate the release of a kidnap victim who had been carried away by gypsies.

About now you are thinking you have stumbled into one of jacko's excellent adventures; or "Jean d'Isle is putting us on." But, as one of the great thinkers of our time, Dave Barry, so eloquently puts it, "I'm not making this up."

The story began one afternoon when I was contacted by an officer in the command asking that I accompany his wife to the Puerto police station that evening and act as an interpreter. He had to leave on business or he would have gone himself. I assumed it was a traffic violation of some kind and agreed to help.

After work that afternoon, I drove off the base, picked up "Mrs. H" at their off-base residence, and continued on to the Puerto police station. On the way, she filled me in on the actual problem.

About two weeks before, the family dog disappeared from the yard of their rental house on the outskirts of Puerto. The dog, a sheltie name Fluffy, was a long-time family member; and his disappearance left their two little girls heartbroken. After many days of fruitless searching produced no leads, a gypsy appeared at the door and, for a small consideration, offered to show Mrs. H where Fluffy was stashed. She immediately jumped in the car and, with the aid of her guide, drove to a ramshackle house in a run-down residential area of the city.

When she knocked on the door, she could hear Fluffy's cries coming from behind the door of the attached garage. The lady who answered the door spoke little English, but made it clear that she was not giving up the dog without compensation for boarding and tender loving care she had provided, to say nothing of the emotional attachment her children had developed for Fluffy. Mrs. H understood that the following evening she was to bring a sum of money to the Puerto police station, where an exchange of money for dog would take place under the benign and impartial gaze of the authorities.

We were now zipping along the road to Puerto in the fading daylight, an elated Mrs. H recalling her promise to her children that Fluffy would be back with the family when she returned.

As you have surely anticipated, the gypsy and Fluffy failed to show. Even allowing for the Andalucian custom of never being anywhere on time, it soon became apparent that we had been stood up or something got lost in the discussion; and if we were not to disappoint the children waiting at home for their beloved Fluffy, we were going to have to find our way to the house, negotiate a swap (on their turf), and get back home.

Mrs. H had a fair sense of direction and was able to steer me to the general area of the house; but the narrow streets made it impossible to complete the trip by car. I parked on a side street, told her to lock the doors and to be ready to move out smartly when I showed up with the dog. I then set off on foot to locate the house using her description of the building and the name the gypsy lady gave her.

It was sweaty palms time as I worked my way in what I hoped was the right direction. The men leaning in the doorways or standing in small groups gave me hard stares as I passed and it was difficult not to keep checking over my shoulder. When it became apparent that I was not going to find the house unless I asked directions, I approached a doorway-leaner and mentioned the woman's name. After some furtive glances, the shifty-eyed chap detached himself from the doorway and motioned for me to follow him down an alley. I wasn't real anxious to do that, particularly when I saw several other men loom out of the shadows and fall in behind us; but I couldn't think of any way to decline his offer of assistance. We made our way down the alley and eventually knocked at a door. A dog (please let it be Fluffy) started barking as the door inched open. The men who had trailed us down the alley followed us into the house and closed and locked the door behind them.

I found myself in a room surrounded by five scruffy looking men, a woman and several children. The room seemed awfully small and warm. I was able to establish that, by some miracle, I was actually at the right house and that negotiations were about to begin. I maneuvered into a position where my back was to the wall, just in case things didn't go well. To simplify my role, I claimed to be Fluffy's owner and the husband of the lady who was there the previous day. Mrs. H had given me a picture of the two children with Fluffy and I showed this to the crowd. I listened to how much care and money had been lavished on the dog after they "found" him wandering in the street and how much their children had come to love him. For this, they felt a reward of 10 mil (10,000 pesetas—about $140) was reasonable. I thanked them profusely for everything they had done and offered one mil (1000 pesetas) for their trouble. Looks of pain and disbelief were followed by serious negotiating. When we finally reached agreement, they were willing to accept 4 mil (Mrs. H set no limit on what she was willing to pay).

I asked to see the dog (I had never laid eyes on the dog before then) and they led me into the garage through an interior door. When I called Fluffy and attempted to pet him, he took off like a streak in the other direction. My cover story as his owner looked a little shaky. It took a while to corner him and fortunately, when I picked him up he didn't bite me (that would have been hard to explain). I told them I never carried cash (unhappy exchange of glances all around) and that I would write them a check for the 4000 pesetas; but they wouldn't get it until Fluffy and I were safely out on the street. I expected an argument, or at least a show of indignation; but they seemed to understand where I was coming from and ushered a squirming Fluffy and me out the garage door to the street. Under a dim street light I wrote the check (hard to do with a wiggling dog tucked under one arm, but I wasn't about to let go of him), handed it over, and quickly retraced my route (with a number of checks on my six o'clock) to where Mrs. H waited nervously in the car.

I had been gone over an hour and she was seriously beginning to wonder if I was going to make it back. When she saw me coming with the dog she threw open the door and I unceremoniously dumped Fluffy in the back seat, jumped in the driver's seat and took off.

There was a lot of relieved dog whimpering and happy squirming on the way home, and a few tears from Mrs. H. I can only recall the feeling of relief at not having to explain to the kids why Fluffy wasn't with us when we pulled up to the house.

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Jean d'Isle is a retired naval officer living in Hawaii.During his military career he served in a number of overseas assignments, including Germany, England, Spain, Viet Nam and Puerto Rico. Following his retirement, he was an adjunct faculty member of Hawaii Pacific University and is currently under contract with the U.S. Navy at the submarine base in Pearl Harbor.

Jean's column, View From d'Isle, is a regular feature of VegSource On-Line Magazine.