The Guardia Civil Typewriter
I had to go to the Guardia Civil headquarters in Felanitx this week to file a complaint, nothing serious just normal homo-sapien irrational behaviour. I won’t waste your time on that subject. How things had changed since my last visit. The formerly dilapidated building was now completely reformed, the entrance to the building was open and welcoming, and the reception office was light with large glass windows. Behind the desk surrounded by computers and hi-tech communications equipment sat a rather attractive young blond lady in a green-uniform with a 9mm Glock strapped to her thigh. She was very friendly and listened attentively as I related to her, in my best Spanish, my story of woe. While I was telling her my sad tale, I was reminded of another visit to the headquarters more than twenty years ago, when we had a holiday house rental business.
On that occasion, one of the houses had been broken into. A watch, some money and an expensive camera had been stolen. I told the clients that if we reported the theft to the Guardia Civil they would fill out a report and they could then make an insurance claim. We made our way through the narrow streets of Felanitx up to the highest part of the town to the Guardia station which used to be an army barracks. The last part of the journey involved swinging the car hard to the right and accelerating up a steep ramp at the side of the building. This was a dangerous manoeuvre as at the top there was another, blind, right-hand turn that led onto the old parade ground that was now used as a car park. It was not unusual for arrivals to come head to head with a departing green and cream Nissan Patrol of the Guardia Civil. On this occasion, we were lucky and parked up safely in front of the old building that was in a severe state of decay. It was about four in the afternoon, siesta time, and the large arched olive wood doors were shut and locked. I felt sure that someone would be on duty, so I banged the large iron door knocker. After a while, there was a sound from within followed by a grating noise as the peep shutter was slid open. A pair of suspicious eyes peered out through the metal grill.
“¿Que pasa?”
I explained that we wished to report a robbery. Once our delegation of three adults and two children was assessed there was a clunking sound from the ancient door lock. One half of the double door swung open to reveal a smart, green-uniformed, young, Guardia Civil constable. He indicated an office just off the entrance hall then relocked the door behind us. In the dim office, the young policeman sat down behind a desk supporting an ancient Remington mechanical typewriter. Within a few years the force would become clients of Microsoft, but at this time the old methods were still in use. There was only one chair, in front of the table, which was taken by the lady in our group. I stood behind with the husband. The two children did what children do when they are bored and not where they want to be and began annoying each other. I gave the officer details of the robbery, and he banged out the letters on the stiff keys of the typewriter. Like most Spanish males who’s job involves some sort of administration the policeman was a reasonable typist, not fast but capable. I always found it strange that in a society that was then so much based on machismo there was no stigma attached to a man being able to touch type. Each time the end stop bell chimed the heavy carriage was slammed back along its guide rail where it banged with a shudder, into the opposite end stop before incrementing its way again to the other end of the machine as the man continued to type. The whole operation of the antediluvian apparatus required force. This repetitive process proceeded without incident until on one return cycle, instead of banging to a stop, the heavy carriage flew off the end of the machine. We watched in amazement as it fell in an arc and slammed, with such force, into the wall on the other side of the room that it dislodged a large piece of masonry. The mechanism dropped with a clatter onto the already heavily pitted terracotta tiled floor. Luckily the children were behind us at the time, or there might have been a very nasty occurrence and another police report to be filled out. The officer sat back in his chair, placed a hand over his mouth and blew a slow, despondent sigh through his fingers as he watched part of the shredded report flutter to the floor. To save him further trauma I recovered the carriage, blew it clean of dust, and returned it to the desk. Luckily it was not too damaged, and after some fiddling, we managed to get it back onto its slide; but there was a problem, the retaining screw for the block that stopped the carriage at the end of its return was missing. The six of us, three civilians, one policeman and two children proceeded to creep around the floor on our hands and knees in search of the fugitive screw, and that’s how the duty sergeant found us when he returned to the office after his lunch. Eventually, we recovered the screw, repaired the machine, and another crime report was filed in the archives of the Felanitx Guardia Civil.