The Dark Side of Spain's Fiesta

By MARGOT HORNBLOWER SEVILLE

The trip from the new Spain to the old is but a five-minute stroll across a gleaming white bridge that spans the Guadalquivir River in Seville. On one / side, near the monastery where Christopher Columbus was once buried, rise the extravagant pavilions of the Universal Exposition. There, 250 fountains gurgle, 325,000 newly planted trees and shrubs shade the weary, and 96 restaurants replenish the hungry. But once over the bridge, sidewalks crumble and the highway dead-ends in a stinking garbage dump known as El Vacie. Within earshot of Expo 92's loudspeakers, 500 Sevillians elbow one another for their daily water ration from a small fountain.

The soaring $75 million Alamillo Bridge, part of $10 billion invested in the fair and new transportation facilities, is an inspired architectural monument. But to those who live in El Vacie's shacks, cubist contraptions of plywood and cardboard, it is an affront. After years of delay, the government only last week began to install 36 flimsy prefabricated homes -- far short of the number needed to house the barrio's 100 families, who live without toilets or running water and cook on open fires. "The rats are eating us!" complains Alvarina Roza Jimenez, mother of eight, holding up her daughter's hand to show a scar. The seven-year-old is barefoot, filthy, with sores on her mouth.

El Vacie differs little from other squatter settlements in Andalusia, where an estimated 44,000 Spaniards, many of them Gypsies, live in poverty. But Expo's construction introduced a new level of envy and conflict. Additional squatters whose homes were bulldozed for the fair moved in, swelling the waiting list for El Vacie's promised houses. At the fountain, a fistfight broke out between women jostling for water, and one was admitted to the hospital with a broken leg. "Expo is a disaster for the poor," says Miguel Angel Moreno, a local Human Rights Association volunteer. "It drained money from social programs and doubled our cost of living."

Two decades ago, the slum's misery would have raised few eyebrows. That was before Spain, dismissed as Europe's Third World backwater, shook off its authoritarian past and propelled itself into relative prosperity. As much as the quincentenary of its "encounter" with America, this country of 39 million is celebrating -- with justifiable swagger -- its breakneck pace of change since General Francisco Franco's death in 1975. Moreover, 1992 marks 10 years of stable democracy under Prime Minister Felipe Gonzalez , a pragmatic Socialist. And it coincides with Spain's integration into the European single market, a source of pride after decades of diplomatic isolation. This year's bold gamble of staging a world's fair and an Olympics will "show the world the image of a modern Spain, far from the cliches of the past," says Virgilio Zapatero, the Cabinet Minister in charge of Expo.

When it comes to throwing a party, Spanish alegria, the joy of living, is infectious. Nonetheless, for many Spaniards old "cliches" like El Vacie are all too present. In Seville, a conservative coalition threw the Expo-promoting Socialists out of city hall last spring. "The state wastes money building pharaonic bridges and highways," says new Mayor Alejandro Rojas Marcos. "But it neglects schools, drug problems and employment." In recent months wildcat strikes shut down Asturias coal mines; an eight-week bus-driver walkout crippled Madrid; Basque steel workers fired homemade rockets at police, and La Mancha farmers blocked the roads with tractors. On May 28, a third of the country's workers joined in a general strike, bringing to 50 million the number of working hours lost to work stoppages, far more than in any other West European nation this year. "This was to be the magic year," says political columnist Jose Luis Gutierrez. "Instead the country is in turmoil: you can smell the aggressiveness."

Spaniards speak of their present desencanto, or disenchantment, as if it were akin to a disease. "Spain is ailing," says Jose Maria Aznar, head of the conservative Partido Popular. "A climate of anxiety has taken hold." Even the popular Barcelona Games, which have spurred an architectural renaissance in that aging port, have been besieged by Catalan nationalists insisting that their flag be flown and their anthem played. Last week police arrested seven armed members of the Catalan independence movement for plotting to kidnap an Olympic athlete or official. A newspaper headline groused, THE OLYMPICS WILL COST EACH TAXPAYER MORE THAN 32,000 PESETAS ($330).

In his State of the Nation address this spring, Gonzalez was forced to spend much of the debate defending his administration over what United Left coalition leader Julio Anguita called "the interminable rosary of scandals." Last year Gonzalez's Deputy Prime Minister resigned after allegations of influence peddling involving his brother. In January another Minister was forced out after a railroad speculation scandal. Last week Gonzalez named a new head of the Bank of Spain, following media allegations linking the incumbent to an insider-trading scheme, charges he denies. "Spain does not have a worse corruption problem than surrounding countries," the beleaguered Gonzalez told parliament. "But it does have a public opinion problem."

Do Spaniards protest too much? Many would argue that their situation is no worse than that in the rest of Europe, where the prosperous 1980s have evolved into the recessionary 1990s and the popularity of most governing parties is falling. But Spain's ruckus seems perversely timed: Expo has attracted about 7 million visitors in 10 weeks, Madrid is preening as this year's European Cultural Capital, and refurbished Barcelona is welcoming 7,000 members of the international media for the country's first Olympics. "It's good to be self- critical, " says Angel Luis Gonzalo, head of Spain's Expo pavilion. "But we should be boasting more about what we do well."

In the late 1980s, Spain had become Europe's wunderkind: its foreign investment ballooned, its 4% cumulative annual growth was the Continent's highest and, with the help of European Community subsidies, it built $30 billion worth of highways and other public works. No longer did Spaniards have to emigrate north for jobs: their income rose to 79% of the E.C. median. Culturally, Spain became fashionable: the campy fantasies of filmmaker Pedro Almodovar; the sunswept abstractions of painter Miguel Barcelo; the postmodern extravaganzas of architect Ricardo Bofill; the prankish sexiness of fashion designer Sybilla. Madrid promoted itself as the eye of a creative tornado known as la movida, whirling all night long. Novelist Camilo Jose Cela won the 1989 Nobel Prize for Literature. "In the 1960s, we felt like second-class Europeans," says Juan Sanchez-Cuenca, director of the U.S.-affiliated advertising firm Bozell Espana. "In the 1980s we felt proud to be Spanish."

But today, he says, "we've lost our confidence. The good times are over." Economic growth has slowed to 2%, and inflation remains at a stubborn 6.9%. Unemployment has swelled to 17.5%, no better than when Gonzalez took office. "There's a lot of cosmetics," says Pedro J. Ramirez, editor of the daily El Mundo. "But fundamentally we have not made a modern economy." Anyone who conducts long-distance business on Spanish telephones or is so naive as to rely on Correos, the government mail service, or so unwitting as to fly Iberia, the fickle state airline, might be tempted to agree.

The '80s was also the decade of "los butiful," Spanish jet-setters who made fortunes in banking and speculation. But in 1992 a new sort of hero set a bonfire to those vanities. This spring 470 coal miners arrived in Madrid after marching more than 300 miles from Leon in the north to protest layoffs. Villagers on the harsh Castillian plateau turned out to applaud and even sing to them; television stations filmed the blisters on their feet. "If they import Polish coal, our valley will die," said Eugenio Carpintero, 32, swigging wine from a leather pouch on a blustery afternoon. Outside the Guadarrama Hospital, nurses and patients cheered, "Viva los mineros!"

Braving the labor unrest, Gonzalez seems determined to wrestle Spain's economy into line with inflation and budget-deficit targets set out in the E.C.'s December agreement at Maastricht. Despite growing doubts elsewhere in Europe, a majority of Spaniards still support the treaty, and Gonzalez has not wavered since he told parliament this spring, "For a country like ours, historically isolated, no effort should be spared to board this train. Our well-being and our stability depend on our success in adapting to the construction of Europe." The restructuring of Spain's noncompetitive heavy industry is under way, and parliament has approved Gonzalez's plan to slash state spending and open up financial, transport, telecommunication and oil- distribution markets.

A onetime firebrand lawyer, Gonzalez has evolved into a smooth diplomat more at home on the international stage than on the streets of Madrid. Last year, brushing off opinion polls that showed most Spaniards opposed the gulf war, he allowed the country's air bases to be used as launching pads for U.S. bombing raids against Iraq. Eventually, domestic opposition faded, and Spanish prestige in the international arena rose, heightened by Madrid's success in hosting last fall's Arab-Israeli peace talks.

Next January Spain's seven-year E.C. transition period will be over, and the country will be forced to compete full throttle in a 340 million consumer market. For every businessman concerned that this will mean a foreign takeover of Spanish industry, another argues that Spain can muscle its way into the big leagues. In his Valencia porcelain factory, Jose Lladro offers his 2,300 employees, 85% of them women, an Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis courts and Friday afternoons off. But the atmosphere is far from relaxed. Quality is rigidly controlled, and any worker who arrives six minutes late loses half an hour's pay. "A lot of firms will go under in 1993," predicts Lladro, who exports 80% of his world-famous figurines. "Only the best will survive."

Steeling itself for further unrest, the government is preparing a new law restricting the right to strike. Similarly, dissent in a flamboyantly free press may be dampened by proposed criminal penalties for libel. "Gonzalez is following in the old regime's authoritarian tradition," charges editor Ramirez, whose paper has aggressively investigated corruption. The government has also taken heat for a new law that allows detention of anyone failing to carry identity papers and permits the search of private homes without warrants in cases of suspected drug dealing.

Spain is one of the few European nations that must still contend regularly with terrorists. But the Basque extremists, who had threatened to disrupt the 1992 festivities, were severely weakened by recent arrests of their top leaders. Nevertheless, the group showed signs of life last month when it bombed a navy van in Madrid, wounding 13. Although Spain's 17 regions are gaining more autonomy, the national-identity issue remains explosive. Catalans and Basques, who control their own schools, police forces and television stations, envision an even more independent future under a Euro-umbrella. The Basque country, says Guernica Mayor Eduardo Vallejo, "should be the 13th star on the E.C. flag."

Polls show that drugs, more than terrorism or the economy, are Spain's most incendiary political issue. The country has become a principal gateway for South American cocaine, Middle Eastern heroin and North African hashish. Although the government has stepped up enforcement, its combat against the drug trade is uneven. Colombian Justice Minister Fernando Carrillo Florez recently charged that "the battle against the Medellin cartel is being lost because of Spanish bureaucratic hassles" in delivering evidence against dealers.

On a warm night in Valencia, 300 citizens gather in the streets of Malvarrosa, a beachfront neighborhood. Passing a megaphone back and forth, they snake through the streets, shaking their fists at apartments where, they claim, heroin traffickers live. "Drug dealers out! Out! Out!" they shout. For seven years, the barrio was besieged by addicts. "Our children couldn't go to buy a loaf of bread without having their coins stolen," said Maria Jose Fuentes, who was marching with her nine-year-old son. "Old ladies were ! attacked. Prostitutes were everywhere, and addicts walked around with needles in their arms." Last September, in what Malvarrosans call the mothers' revolution, the neighborhood rose up. Every night since, it has held a one- hour street protest. "The only punctual things in Spain are this and the beginning of the bullfights," jokes bricklayer Santiago Marin.

Last fall, when the protests were televised, similar demonstrations flared in Barcelona, Madrid, Santander and Murcia. Embarrassed, the national police stormed Malvarrosa and attacked unarmed demonstrators with tear gas, rubber bullets and water cannons, injuring 35. But the assault backfired: two weeks later, 25,000 Valencians turned out to protest against the police and uphold the vigilante movement. "If necessary, we'll continue our protests forever," says bartender Jose Lopez.

The mood of the nation is impatient: Spain may be willing to celebrate how far it has come, but not without railing at how long lies the road ahead. Democracy and prosperity boosted expectations beyond what an Expo or an Olympics can satisfy. In Seville, the graffiti read EXPO '92: UNEMPLOYMENT '93. In Valencia, a large scrawl on a concrete wall declares NO MORE PROMISES. SOLUTIONS NOW! The time for fiestas may be running out.